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Charles Wagner. 



THE VOICE OF NATURE, 

OR, £ 03 

THE SOUL OF THINGS. 



BY 



EEV. CHARLES WAGNER, 

Author of " The Simple Life," "The Busy Life." Etc., Etc. 



Translated from the French by OLIVE HARPER. 



COPYEIGHT, 1904, BY 

J. S. Ogilvie Publishing Company. 



New York: 
J. S. OGILVIE PUBLISHING COMPANY, 

57 Rose Street, 



LIBRARY Of CONGRESS 
Two Copies Received 

DfcC 3 1904 

Couyritfiu tfiiry 
7ltnsA, t90i+ 
CUSS <v XXC Noi 

/Of /'3 
COPY 6. 



BD*3I 



THREE BOOKS BY THE SAME AUTHOR. 

THE SIMPLE LIFE. 
THE VOICE OF NATUEE. 
THE BUSY LIFE. 

Printed and bound uniform in style and price. Paper 
cover, 30 cents ; cloth bound, 60 cents. Mailed, postpaid, 
on receipt of price by the Publishers. 



CONTENTS. 



PAGE 

Author's Preface 5 

The Key to the Fields 7 

The Lessons of the Mountain 10 

The Torrent 12 

Too Much Protection 15 

The Old Stock 18 

Vain Hopes — Chimerical Terrors 20 

On the Frontier 24 

The Old Sawyer ; 28 

On the Banks of the Leman 31 

About Old Rags 33 

The Two Cuirassiers 35 

Shelter 38 

How We Make Enemies 41 

Without a Watch 43 

Without a Purse 47 

A Fishing Party 52 

Wheat 55 

I A Pest 59 

Flies 65 

Small People — Great Examples 71 

What Are They Looking At? 73 

On the Death of the Flowers 76 

An Act of Justice 78 

A Cat in the Water 81 

Those to Whom We Listen 84 

Moving 87 

3 



4 CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

To Better Oneself 89 

What Is Going to Happen? 93 

The Terrace Builder's Breakfast 96 

Habit 99 

Questions of Age 102 

To Serve at the Right Moment 105 

Monsieur Son-in-Law 108 

Well Informed 113 

Impossible Sympathy 116 

To Distrust Oneself 119 

Find the Formula 123 

Infamous Capital 126 

Ready Money 130 

A New Divinity 134 

Street Sweepers 138 

Extra Horses 142 

Morning Bells 145 

Lesson of Labor 148 

The Hand 152 

Discouragement 154 

Labors for the Future 157 

Associated Miseries 160 

The Shoe 162 

Wishes 166 

GoodWill 169 

Pilgrimage 172 

Impressions of All Saints' Day 175 

Paquerette — Easter Daisy 179 



AUTHOR'S PREFACE 



The scenes described and interpreted in this book 
are but the changeable reflection of life, smiling and 
wretched by turns, noble and vile, ideal, or of the 
earth, earthy, but always interesting. 

The tiniest crumb of reality, an ant at its labor, a 
child at play, a leaf falling from the tree, have always 
strangely captivated me. 

As cold as the most learned deception leaves me, 
just so much the simple and authentic phenomena 
charm me. One part of the great drama is played there 
by actors without paint or bombast. 

The attraction of living things is inexhaustible. 
Each, by an irresistible movement, becomes a sign, a 
lesson, a symbol. There is not a slender thread of a 
rivulet hidden in the valley that, step by step, does not 
guide toward the summit. All creation speaks to him 
who knows how to lend his ear. Of this voice- of 
things, heard so often in whispers or formidable 
sounds, I have tried to note a few accents. 

Permit me to offer them to you, known and un- 
known friends, in these pages now gathered together. 
May they receive from you as kind a welcome as their 
elders had. 

C. Wagner. 

E 



THE VOICE OF NATURE 



THE KEY TO THE FIELDS. 

Man acts, but God leads him. One does not do 
what he wishes to do; and more than one has taken 
root where he had intended only to pass by. That is my 
case. Rural by nature, I found myself retained by 
imperative labor in the heart of a great city, and I 
shall doubtless die there some day, having guarded, 
in the bottom of my heart, the lively and loved remem- 
brance of forests and fields. 

While waiting, I profit by happy chances to escape 
from my prison at intervals. 

Such was the beginning of an article that I wished 
to write for some friends, about the tenth of March, 
at Chene-Bougeries, near Geneva. It was interrupted 
by other occupations. I continue it now at the end of 
April, at Montana-sur-Sierre, in Valais, by the bed- 
side of my son. Ah ! the uncertain path of our lives, 
what turns it makes ; how it rises or falls unexpectedly ! 
There is the beginning of the article to which I was to 
give a following little dreamed of then. 

The key to the fields was offered me, or rather, 

7 



g THE VOICE OF NATURE. 

forced upon me, and for longer than I should have de- 
sired. And now, in this Alpine solitude, where I am, 
the direction of my thoughts is oftener toward that 
Paris, from which so little time ago I congratulated 
myself on sometimes escaping. 

When I say the key to the fields, it must not be 
taken literally. There are no fields here save those of 
snow. The plow loves only the plains and lower slopes 
of the mountains. It does not climb to high altitudes. 
One does not hear the laborer's whip, nor the song of 
the sower, but, instead, the torrents which run to the 
valley and leave deep ravines on the abrupt flank of 
the mountain. 

But how beautiful is this solitary region of sum- 
mits ! What a seal of grandeur is set thereon ! And 
how these giants of the Alps, immovable under the 
sky, make us think of that which changes not ! Every 
moment passages from the Old Testament chant a re- 
frain in my memory. The Book of Prophets and 
Psalms are full of imagery borrowed from the moun- 
tains. 

"The Lord is a rock and a high tower." "I will 
lift mine eyes to the mountains from whence comes my 
salvation." In seeing them seated on their bases, 
ranged around that vast horizon, like white and impos- 
ing majesties, it seems to me that they are the wit- 
nesses of God — monuments that he placed there to 
say: "That which I have promised holds good." 

And then, across the massive solidity of these visi- 
ble things, the invisible appears to me, of which all 
that the eye beholds is but the symbol. And these 



THE VOICE OF NATURE. 9 

words of the Spirit sound in the deepest depths of my 
soul : "Before the mountains were born, and Thou 
had created the earth and the world, from everlasting 
to everlasting Thou art God." 

"The mountains will crumble, the hills shake, but 
my grace will not shake and my alliance of peace will 
not fall." 

"Heaven and earth will pass away, but my words 
will not pass away." 

If the mountain is mighty, it is graceful also. 

There is nothing so impressive as these contrasts. 
On the immensity of the ocean the light, snowy body 
of a sea-gull is rocked by the wave, or on the gigantic 
back of the mountain grows the little blue gentian of 
deepest hue. Oh, this blue! I think, when leaning 
over this corollary, of Him who said : 

"Consider the lilies of the field; Solomon in all his 
glory was not arrayed like one of these." And I can- 
not help thinking how good He was to attach His 
words of the eternal life to the most fragile things of 
the earth, and to send the message by a little flower. 
"Take no heed of to-morrow." In truth the gospel 
of salvation could not be confided to more gracious 
messengers. 

And I shall not complain of having walked through 
unknown and dangerous paths, if, sometimes, in turn- 
ings where I have felt the most hesitancy, it was given 
to me to meet this companion, the most desirable of all, 
whose word reassures, whose look sheds light on all 
things, and whose words furnish the key to the king- 
dom of heaven. 



IQ THE VOICE OP NATURE. 



THE LESSONS OF THE MOUNTAIN. 

The solitary tourist who travels over the summits 
of the Vosges, to the Ballon or the Champ-du-feu, 
crosses immense pasturages sown with a fine and 
hardy grass. In the midst of these fields, which Na- 
ture alone fecundates and cares for, the labor of man 
is seen but from time to time, under the form of a 
barrier of wood, or some primitive wall of stones super- 
posed without cement. The eye is so much the more 
surprised to meet here and there thickets of beech, 
carefully trimmed, as if some painstaking gardener, 
who loved symmetry, had passed that way. All these 
thickets present the form of very regular cones, of 
every size, and the number is so great that one thinks 
with wonder of the colossal labor their shaping has 
cost. 

And yet this labor has not cost one penny. It has 
not troubled a gardener nor a pair of scissors. It 
has accomplished itself with as much good will as 
knowledge. And it is the cows and the sheep and 
goats who are the authors. The first day of their ar- 
rival on the mountain, the flocks and herds attack the 
tender buds and twigs with avidity. They browse 
conscientiously to the last leaf, and the shearer who 
clips the wool from their heads does not work with 
greater precision than these thousands of sharp teeth 
at the service of the appetites ceaselessly renewed. 

The same work may be seen on the fir trees. I have 
often observed in the Alps the diverse forms which 



THE VOICE OF NATURE. H 

the trees finally take under the voracious teeth of the 
herbivorous animals. 

Some die. The drain kills them. Others, where 
the cows have browsed on the hearts, remain dwarfed. 
Years pass and they do not grow an inch. They are 
there crouched down on the ground like a hedgehog 
in defence. But others, having kept their central 
growth, throw it up in the air with vigor. The very 
bites under which fall the young twigs and branches 
which garnish the base of the tree, multiply these, and 
at length make them grow to a vegetation rich and 
hardy, After a number of years, when the tree has 
raised its living crown toward the heavens, it finds it- 
self furnished with a sort of spiny muff, which is ab- 
solutely impenetrable. Impossible to approach it — it 
defies all attacks. 

Seeing these diverse destinies of the trees, those of 
men seem to me to be similar. We also bear differ- 
ently the trials and difficulties of life. They hinder 
the growth of some, and exterminate others complete- 
ly. But there are others whom the attacks fortify. They 
grow by the very struggle. The blows of adversity 
forge an armor for them. I admire those as I con- 
sider with interest the robust fir tree which has 
triumphed in its struggle. 

Still, I do not know what sorrowful tenderness 
causes me to pause beside those poor little trees, stunted, 
conquered and mutilated. I say to myself that the 
same Creator caused them to grow; He made the 
whole of them, and knows what happens to each, and 
does not forget one. Their place is marked in His 



22 THE VOICE OF NATURE. 

plan. Is not also in that thought our consolation in 
obscure life? 

Those who grow, grow by His strength ; those who 
fall, fall into His arms. 



THE TORRENT. 

The tides are the faithful symbols of human life. 
We talk of the course of existence, of its source, of 
the ocean of eternity ; where all the little rivulets go to 
throw themselves, images of actual, individual life, and 
the great floods, images of collective life. 

Like the tides, life has its storms, its tempests and 
its repose. It is troubled to-day, dull, seeming like 
torrents yellowed by storm. To-morrow it will be 
limpid, and the traveler, following its banks will dis- 
tinguish the sand, and see polished pebbles on its deep 
bed. 

A stained life resembles those rivers where industry 
empties its poisons. The surface is discolored with 
grease and dust. From the floating masses which 
cover them mount impure exhalations. In a pure life 
heaven is reflected as in clear water the hill sees its re- 
flection and the stars look at themselves. 

The gaiety of childhood recalls those alert little 
water-courses, tumbling adown the ravines, where the 
wag-tail wets his swift feet. Is there a word, a cry, 
a color painting human joy better than the infinite 



THE VOICE OP NATURE. 13 

smile of the sun on the scintillating wrinkles of a 
blue sea? And when the waves- slow down, sobbing 
across the weeds, would one not say one heard voices 
of those who wept? The tide all around murmurs, 
sings, complains, growls, thunders. It has its caresses 
and it has its angers. 

I observe the active man, of useful efforts, of gener- 
ous courage, he whose life is full of labors and strug- 
gles. Is he not, in his noble activity, like the tide 
which turns the mill-wheels and the turbines, brings 
the ships, and makes fertile the fields and prairies ? 

The idle man is represented by the stagnant water 
where black reptiles deposit their eggs. 

Like the bottom of the silent waters, the soul of the 
hypocrite springs surprises upon us. Do not confide 
in that surface sweetness; it hides traps, abysses. 
There is no more dangerous water than that which 
sleeps. 

I am seated on the banks of a torrent swollen by the 
melting of the snows. What secret charm inclined 
me to follow it from its origin at the base of the dis- 
tant glacier? But the more familiar I became with it 
while making my progress, the more I thought I could 
observe the destinies of a living being. At first it 
had trickled on the bare soil recently abandoned by the 
snow. A multitude of narrow little veins gathered 
into a great artery, and the course began, moderate at 
first, then accelerated until it reached an abrupt wall 
of rock, where it made a sudden jump into the gulf. 
By winding paths I rejoined my traveling companion — 
a little dizzy by its fall. It boiled and whirled in a 



14 THE VOICE OF NATURE. 

sort of enormous basin, from which it soon escaped to 
cross the pasturages of a vast plateau. There its course 
became peaceful — it fitted itself to the details of the 
landscape, idling in tranquil pools, stopping to play 
with the ranunculus plants. 

Reaching the limit of the forest of firs, it was a 
descent, always more and more precipitate, down to 
this rugged gorge where the beauty of the spectacle 
retained me. Adieu the serene walk along the Alpine 
prairie S Here it is another world. All the powers seem 
to be leagued against the course of the water to hinder 
it from running straight downward in peace. Tree 
trunks are lying across its bed. Whole blocks of 
rocks have elected it as domicile. Against them the 
torrent breaks, foams, dashes in flakes and falls back 
in cascades, powders in fine spray which minute rain- 
bows make iridescent at moments. In the distance the 
combs of the mountains ring with the fracas of the 
waters. Sometimes one might say they were formi- 
dable voices, covering a meeting of combating enemies. 
I listen ; I look, marveling. I compare this proud tor- 
rent with the gentle idler of the pasturages above. 
How different and how much more beautiful ! 

In the peaceful course of a happy life man is like 
a transparent rivulet, allowing itself to glide through 
a sunny prairie. Let the days of adversity come, the 
assault of contradictory forces, the necessity of fight- 
ing, he will regret the hardness of the times. But if 
there is some latent virtue in him, you will see him 
reveal himself under aspects until then unknown. His 
soul, like the raging torrents, hurt against the rocks, 



THE VOICE OF NATURE. ^5 

will grow in the breast of his trials. The hidden 
energy will awaken. Surrounded, blockaded, torment- 
ed, his inward force will come to the surface, spring- 
ing from its prison, bounding at obstacles, and his 
most courageous actions, his most magnanimous trans- 
ports, we owe, perhaps, to the difficult paths which he 
was obliged to pass in spite of himself. 



TOO MUCH PROTECTION. 

Protection is a necessary function. Nature is 
everywhere provided with organs destined to fill that 
function. 

The bark protects the tree, the cocoon the larva, the 
fur the bear, the scale the fish, the skull the brains. 
A special care is taken of all that is born, germinates, 
aspires to life or makes its first entrance into that diffi- 
cult career. To be convinced of that one does not 
need to be a naturalist. It is enough to have eyes. 
Look how the flowers and leaves are enveloped on the 
bourgeons of the trees when the sap begins to swell 
them in the spring. No packer of jewels or precious 
objects can equal what has been done for the least 
growth in the hollows of unknown valleys. It is the 
infinite in the art of precautions. 

In spite of that precaution has its limits. The nor- 
mal regulation of all these beings has its risks, strug- 
gles, a part of their salutary rigor. Neither toil nor 
dangers are spared them. They grow in full effort and 



1(J THE VOICE OP NATURE. 

degenerate in ease. After the protecting cotton the 
fortifying shower. 

Human education does not know how to always 
maintain an exact balance between these two elements. 
When we protect we easily stifle. Our shadow is tute- 
lary, but it causes that which it covers to perish. We 
avoid great risks for them, but we hinder them from 
developing character. 

I consider as one of the saddest things of existence, 
that tenderness itself, and solicitude, may become a 
peril. It is so legitimate to love one's children, so 
natural to wish for them a destiny easier than ours 
when we have had rude beginnings. And that is why 
there are fathers, mistreated by life, and become men 
among sufferings and struggles, that rear sons who 
are not their equals. Grandparents, in whom all the 
human energies are found, make of their grandsons 
impotents and incapables by excess of solicitude. This 
danger is to be feared, above all, in families greatly 
tried. Having suffered so many blows of destiny, 
they enfold the newcomers with an almost unhealthy 
tenderness, and have no courage to be severe with 
them. The idea of seeing them suffer becomes insup- 
portable to them, and, according to a picturesque but 
commonly used locution, they rot. 

By hazard, during a walk in the forest the other day, 
I came across a symbol so expressive of this style of 
education, that I desire to present it to the attention of 
my readers. 

In the middle of a field of ferns rose the trunk of a 
fir tree, sawn about as high as a man. The natives of 



THE VOICE OF NATURE. jj 

this country of Valais have much consideration for 
their backbones. Always when they cut a tree they do 
it at a fair height — not to bend their backs too much. 
The trunk therefore which occupies our mind just now 
stood there like a large pedestal of an antique column. 
Mossy, the bark well preserved, but the wood absolutely 
decomposed, it was invaded by a multitude of lichens 
and small weeds, and on its top had rooted two pretty 
little fir trees, six or eight years old. Brought hither 
by the wind, two winged seeds, escaped from a cone, 
had found a propitious dwelling-place. From the 
heart of this trunk, maybe hundreds of years old, they 
had sprung and prospered, in plain view, better than 
their young comrades around them. Impossible to 
have a situation more favorable., Neither teeth of 
goats, nor the sickle of the women, cutting indifferently 
the grass of the woods and the tender twigs ; neither 
the tusks of the wild boar, nor the iron-shod feet of 
the hunter could do them injury. 

In truth, that was just like two spoiled children, 
and I was ready to find their fate worthy of envy, when 
I began to think of their future. For the moment all 
goes well, I said, but after? What will they do when 
they are fifteen or twenty years old? Circumscribed 
as though in a closet by the trunk of the ancestor who 
protects, and imprisons them, they cannot spread out 
their roots. Their tutor will hinder them from reach- 
ing to the earth. They will grow stunted, and one 
fine day, when the old trunk, drained dry to the mar- 
row — having nourished them with its substance — will 
fall finally into crumbs, its nurslings will bend to 



13 THE VOICE OF NATURE. 

earth — poor, uprooted things — playthings of the wind, 
and their miserable end will excite the pity of the 
passer-by. 



THE OLD STOCK. 

They say "All roads lead to Rome." But are there 
not roads that lead nowhere? When you have taken 
them they seem to lead east. And, while following 
them, you have deviated toward the north, and later, 
taken the direction of the setting sun. They were 
large roads, almost wide enough for carriages. They 
ended in narrow paths, which, insensibly, were effaced 
beneath your feet, leading nowhere. Such is the moun- 
tain road which I have just lost. And I congratulate 
myself for it. For it left me, at the proper moment, 
like an intelligent guide delivers you to yourself in 
front of a spectacle, which claims all your attention, 
and which the indiscreet chattering of your cicerone 
would spoil. 

It left me, my road, and I had wandered a moment 
before I had perceived it. So long as it was there 
beneath my feet I was subject to all its inflections, like 
the docile water that writhes and twists at the will of a 
capricious bed. Now I see I am lost; I search the 
savage gorge, in which I have just fallen, with my 
eyes. 

What a world, what beautiful chaos ! There, above, 
enormous rocks emerge to the sunshine. Lower, near 
to me, the powerful forest clings to the abrupt descent 



THE VOICE OF NATURE. ^9 

sown with blocks of all forms and sizes. With their 
roots uncovered, the fir trees clasp these fragments. 
One asks oneself whether the trees sustain the rocks, 
or if the rocks hold the fir trees. And the whole, at 
times, seems about to> crumble toward the yawning 
crevice, from where mounts the voice of the torrent. 

Few human beings have left their trace here. The 
woodsman who uses his axe everywhere respects this 
solitude. Why should he cut the wood ? No one could 
carry it. Time alone, or the tempests, are woodsmen 
here. Giant trunks rot beneath the moss, and in a 
pell-mell recall in their disorderly fall the days of the 
cyclone. 

Elsewhere forest ancestors still stand, dead and erect. 
Their wormy bark hangs in strings. On the dry 
branches long gray beards hang and tremble. One 
might call them skeletons dragging their lugubriously 
discolored tatters. 

But, very soon, in all this picture, one point attracts 
my eyes and retains them, fascinated. One old stump, 
a vestige, doubtless, of some colossus struck by light- 
ning, spread out to the sunlight, in a clearing, the vast 
system of its decorticated roots. She launched them 
far, like tentacles; buried them in the soil, like the 
claws of a vulture. For how long has this discrowned 
ruin occupied this place ? Her state of decrepitude on 
this subject allows free imagination. But, no matter. 
She has found her employ, and the most graceful pos- 
sible. In the angles formed by her massive roots, a 
colony of strawberry vines grow luxuriantly. A few 
vines have climbed to her head, and courageously im- 



20 THE VOICE OF NATURE. 

planted themselves in the softened wood transformed 
into a rich soil. 

Among the white corollaries of flowers and the 
toothed leaves fine red berries show like laughing chil- 
dren. And the old stump, made young again by this 
gay vegetation, enlaces it tenderly with her skinny, 
grandmotherly arms. Before, when she bore a flour- 
ishing tree, nothing grew around her. All that was 
born died stifled. The tree has fallen, leaving . in its 
stead a vacant place filled with light and air. And now 
what is left becomes the center of an intense life. Hun- 
dreds of vegetables germinate there, sheltered from the 
wind and protected from the feet of travelers. Open 
table is offered there to the birds of the forest. 

Good old stump, the more I look at you the more 
you seem animated with a sweet soul. You are the 
image of noble lives, broken and bruised, detached 
from all personal happiness, consecrated from now on 
to that of others. In this unknown corner, full of 
majestic beauty, nothing draws my attention more than 
you. 

The fascination of moral beauty in us must be very 
powerful. To efface all other impressions, an old 
stump of dead wood sufficed where our soul believed it 
had found blossoming a symbol of goodness. 



VAIN HOPES— CHIMERICAL TERRORS. 

The strawberries must be ripe in the big clearing in 
the larch woods. It is a month now since we have seen 



THE VOICE OF NATURE. 21 

their first flowers. The other day, in passing there, we 
saw fruit as large as lentils, and some were already 
turning red. By this weather, mingled of gentle rains 
and the warm regards of the sun, the bays fill up and 
color in the hollows of the mountains like cakes in the 
oven. Come on, children ! Get your willow baskets, 
rmd fill them with lunch. The woodland air makes us 
hungry. When the baskets are empty you will lay 
fresh grass in the bottoms, and fill them to the brim 
with those delicious wild strawberries, with their 
matchless perfume. Your sick brother shall have his 
part, which will give him pleasure. 

And now we are off, and tongues are untied. 

"Do you think, papa, that these baskets are large 
enough? To gather that mass of berries, we should 
have big baskets or boxes. Shall we go back to get 
them?" 

"Oh, no ; you can make baskets of rushes. We will 
give everybody strawberries: to our neighbor who is 
confined to his room ; to the good old woman who walks 
with crutches. We will make marmalade, tarts, and 
preserves." 

"Bah ! Perhaps they are not ripe yet, or the birds 
have eaten them. Is it not so, papa, that birds love 
strawberries, and carry them to their little ones?" 

"And, who knows, perhaps someone has been there 
ahead of us. That might happen; the passers, the 
woodsmen and their children. They know the forest 
well." 

"Here is the big pond. We are half way. One more 
little climb, then a descent, and we will be there. The 



22 THE VOICE OF NATURE. 

place is on the hillside, and I could find it alone, I 
could." 

"And you, Jean — where is your basket?" 

"I have none. I will lunch with everybody. And 
if I find any berries I will eat them at once." 

"But who is that woman coming from that path 
there? One would say that she came from the place 
where we are going. She carries a basket in her hands. 
There is red on the top. They are our strawberries. 
Misery! She has gathered them all. Poor sick 
brother, who was already enjoying them in anticipa- 
tion !" 

"Don't talk that way. That woman, without doubt, 
needs to earn her living. She gathers strawberries to 
sell. With that money she will buy bread." 

"But that is vexing. I shall go no further. Do you 
think it is amusing to go so far uselessly?" 

"What if we looked a little closer at her basket ! Let 
us see if her berries are good." 

"Her berries ! She has none, the poor woman. It is 
only a red cloth which covers her basket. Under it is 
white. There are eggs. I breathe again. Quick, 
come on !" 

"Here we are near the aspen tree with the top cut 
down. We must turn to the left here. But, what is 
it that we hear? Children's voices?" 

"Is the place already taken? There will remain 
nothing for us. They will laugh at us. What a 
nuisance !" 

"They are the children of the village, and here they 
come. They hold a handkerchief swollen with some- 



THE VOICE OF NATURE. 23 

thing which they hold in it by the four corners — straw- 
berries without doubt." 

"Fie! it is awfully unclean to put strawberries in 
handkerchiefs. I wouldn't eat them." 

"Good-day, my young folks. What have you got 
there?" 

"Bran, sir, and soaked bread, to give to the geese 
on the pond. It is funny to see them quarrel over this 
food. They never get enough." 

"Good, we are trapped again ! All these people have 
planned to lead us into error, and to make us languish 
and grow angry. What do you think, papa?" 

"That you are all a little crazy. These good people 
go their ways without thinking of your strawberries 
or you. You attribute ideas to them that they have not 
got. It is unjust to them; and as to you, it troubles 
your mind." 

"Here we are, arrived at the famous place. We find 
traces of footsteps. Others have been here for berries 
before us. It is natural and is their right. There are 
not enough left to fill jars, but there are many, and fine 
ones. Brother will not be deprived, nor you, either. 
You will all be tired of gathering them before you get 
them all. And, see, you will not have what you fool- 
ishly expected, nor that which you as foolishly feared. 
Your minds are excessive; and you will find in this 
the just measure, the reasonable measure. It is no dif- 
ferent in life. Remember this later when it regards 
things more serious than strawberries." 

Rarely is all we wish for given us. Rarely happens 
to us all that we feared. How much easier existence 



24 THE VOICE OF NATURE. 

would be, if we knew how to moderate our desires bet- 
ter, and command our fears more! But each one 
leaves them full liberty, and from infancy accustoms 
himself to be the slave of his imagination. 



ON THE FRONTIER. 

The Donon is a ridge in the Vosges, situated above 
the Ban de la Roche, and passes, ever since 1870, as 
the frontier of France and Germany. I do not think 
that there exists anywhere in our Western Europe a 
more beautiful forest than that above. From the great 
mass of Donon innumerable valleys, densely wooded, 
branch out in every direction, and particularly toward 
the west. There are vast undulations where the eye 
could endlessly wander, and where the wind causes the 
leaves to shiver and plows hollows like the enormous 
waves in a verdant ocean. And when the tourist in 
descending the austere mountain plunges into the 
depths of the old forests, he finds among the firs, with 
their long, gray beards, and the beeches, with their light 
and gay foliage, an immense and inviolate silence. 

Nothing troubles these silent passages, save from 
time to time the flight of a frightened kid, or a deer, or 
the formidable flight of a grouse — that king of game 
birds, whose wings beat the air until it resounds like 
the throb of a drum. 



THE VOICE OF NATURE. 25 

It is there, in the dreamy peace of the heights, the 
child of Alsace feels overcome by I know not what 
sadness, of which the old moss-covered rocks are the 
mute confidants. This implacable line of the frontier 
evokes in us, in the midst of the calm of nature, sou- 
venirs of the war, of combats; and after, of conflicts 
with the people — those furious fights covered with hu- 
man cries and noise of arms. More than one, in pass- 
ing here, must have thought the place haunted by the 
demons of war. 

In my turn I followed the forest path, delivered over 
to strange and somber suggestions. But it was in 
summer, afternoon, and on a beautiful but warm day. 
My footsteps slowed, and while warlike visions surged 
up around me and possessed my mind, there began 
around me an active opposition. The soft grass ca- 
ressed my hands; the little wild flowers, like so many 
childhood's friends, made signs, called me softly, and 
I finished by ceding to the temptation to repose myself, 
after a long absence, on the bosom of my native soil. 

Have you ever lain down on the ground, with your 
forehead lifted to the blue sky? Have you seen the 
sky, on a beautiful August night, through the frail 
reeds or the tops of barley balancing above your head? 
It is, I assure you, a fashion of looking at the universe 
that is by no means banal, and which inspires salutary 
reflections. 

As to me, I floated between two worlds. 

The back against that fatal line of demarkation and 
of contest, marked at regular distances by stones, to 
accentuate still more clearly the boundary, I had the 



26 THE VOICE OP NATURE. 

impression of being by the side of an eternally impas- 
sable abyss. I felt in my very marrow the cold steel 
which had opened this gulf between two peoples, made 
to understand and complete each other. 

And yet, I know not what beneficent influence, what 
breath of peacefulness fell upon me from the immensity, 
through the branches of the oaks and the lace of the 
ferns. 

At this moment I saw a little titmouse, with her black 
head, her beak filled with booty. She was there, 
French side, causing a light twig of a fir tree to bend 
its delicate extremity with the weight of her tiny body. 
But scarcely had I had time to note her than she flew 
away, on the German side, where she doubtless had 
her nest. 

A bird crossing the frontier — what of that? Noth- 
ing, surely. But why, then, did this careless flight of 
the bird over the terrible line move in me depths until 
now unknown? I was trying to solve this question 
when I discovered, in the grass close to me, a series of 
busy ants, which came and went with all sorts of pro- 
visions for their families, and crossed this threshold 
of territories without other formality. In the lumin- 
ous atmosphere were crossed those black streaks left 
behind by the flights of bees. Were these streaks the 
scratched out mistakes of diplomats? Higher, driven 
by a westerly breeze, light clouds coming from France 
floated over to Germany. 

Burning zone of the frontier, where the spark is al- 
ways ready to flash between two vast corps charged 
with opposing electrical forces, I saw you then crossed 



THE VOICE OF NATURE. 27 

by many travelers whom you knew not of and whom 
you did not arrest. I saw you crossed by the road of 
the ants, the road of the birds, the road of clouds, with- 
out counting that which at this hour my eyes could not 
distinguish — that of the stars. And if I could have 
followed the hidden work of the vegetation under the 
dark soil, I should have seen, under this same fron- 
tier, the trees fraternize by their roots. 

These facts, as so many symbols, show me that cer- 
tain heights and depths escape the lines which limit the 
surface. There is, in the high regions of intelligence 
and faith, and in the multiple involutions of the en- 
trails, a power before which barriers established be- 
tween peoples no longer count. Does all that hinder 
the frontier from existence ? No. It is there, with all 
the painful souvenirs and the duties that it recalls. 
He is no man who can pass it without suffering and 
regret; without thinking of the country with a heart 
more moved, a firmer will to sacrifice himself for its 
defence. But frontiers are not absolute. Betore be- 
ing enemies those whom it separates are men. 

In spite of the tragic seriousness of those cease- 
lessly disputed barriers, there exist higher than they 
and lower indestructible attachments. We must never 
cease to believe in that which unites us, even in face 
of the gravest dissensions and the worst injustice. 
Without doubt, it was to force me to remember that 
eternal truth, that the flight of a bird produced such 
an impression on me. 

And beneath the dome of the forest, where the set- 
ting sun lighted a thousand fires on the moss, the 



28 THE VOICE OF NATURE. 

barks, the wings of the gnats and the beetles, I con- 
tinued my road, thinking of the kingdom of peace 
where there will be but one flock and only one shep- 
herd. 



THE OLD SAWYER. 

The valleys are already filled with shadow. On all 
sides sound the bells on the goats, returning heavy 
with milk from distant pastures. The peasants await 
them on their thresholds. Soon the milk will foam in 
the pails, and the children will have whitened their 
lips in it. 

Unrolling its solitary lines the road glides under the 
old forest. Through the gilded cones of the fir trees 
appear heights where the sun says good-bye in a feast 
of light. 

It is the hour when at some turn in the road the 
iron-shod shoes of the old sawyer ring as he walks. 
His day's work ended, he has turned aside the flow of 
water from over his great wheel, to return to his home. 
With his white hair, his blue eyes, his pale face, his 
back bent under his large basket, this man from the 
first excites interest. His personality breathes of no- 
bility and gentleness. But why is he so sad? 

He has a great sorrow, the old worker. Illness has 
entered his home. For three years his poor wife has 
suffered from a cruel ailment. Confined to her bed, 



THE VOICE OP NATURE. 29 

she waits impatiently at night for the return of her 
companion. And he hastens his steps that he may 
reach her sooner. After the day of labor, begins his 
office as sick nurse. He carries chips to light the fire, 
and thinks, during his long walk, of a means to solace 
and distract his poor wife. Alas! she grows more 
miserable, daily, and will not long see him return to 
her, this husband so filled with tender love, and who 
watches over her declining life. That is why the old 
sawyer walks with dim eyes and bent back. And yet 
he is very courageous. 



At his post of duty at the first working hour, he may 
be seen moving the heavy logs of fir. Alone, with a 
movement of his lever, he sends them rolling on the 
chariot, adjusts them, fixes them with clasps, and then 
slides them while he unclamps the machinery. With 
an infernal pleasure the sharp teeth bite at the heart of 
the logs. Then, while the saw frays across the trem- 
bling fibres, and the logs become planks or beams, the 
old sawyer occupies himself with some business of 
secondary importance. At times he sits down, follow- 
ing the work in course of completion. Long reveries 
absorb him, interrupted only by the necessity of read- 
justing the pieces after each voyage of the log. He 
remembers old happenings. How many fine fir trees 
has he cut into different things— fine trees brought 
down from their proud height by the bed of the tor- 
rent. Child of that valley, he slept then in their 



30 THE VOICE OF NATURE. 

shadow. One after another, fallen by the force of 
the wind, or cut down by the woodsmen, they have 
come to lie on the chariot whose slow and inexorable 
march has something of the rigor of destiny. Cut into 
beams, laths, planks and boards of all kinds, they served 
to build all the cottages of the country. And when a 
mountaineer slept his last sleep, it was still the hands 
of the old sawyer who cut the boards for his coffin. 
To the young and the old, to the rich and the poor, he 
.had furnished them without distinction. His brow 
had grown grave under this austere labor. Now, in 
the midst of his laborious days, when the thought of 
his dear sick wife haunted him and presentiments of 
the approaching separation weighed upon him, he had 
the impression that he ought to prepare the boards for 
her last bed ; and the metallic song of the saw, making 
its way through the heart of the wood, seemed to 
grate on his very heart-strings. 



Near the roaring torrent the sawmill is voiceless. 

The wheel is stopped. The water of the canal is 
turned aside — sign of mourning. 

The sawyer to-day has not come up. His poor wife 
has ceased to suffer. At the sound of the tolling bell 
in the village church the procession of neighbors had 
carried her to her tomb. 

Hereafter at the desolate fireside where they had 
loved each other so long, no one would wait for his 
coming ; no one at his departure would say adieu. 

Still he would go back in the morning where wait- 



THE VOICE OF NATURE. 3J[] 

ing work needed him. Nothing would outwardly in- 
dicate his desolation. 

As ever he would adjust the great blocks on the 
chariot where the saw would cut ridges. 

For his wife's coffin he had cut boards from a very- 
old larch, which had been struck by lightning the sum- 
mer before. He would cut from the same trunk enough 
to serve him for the same purpose. 

While waiting to rejoin his loved companion he fills 
his duties with exactitude. But his heart is absent. 
He thinks of her who has gone on before, there to 
that land of mystery and of hope. And his noble look, 
deep and dolorous, is fixed so often on that dawning 
land of immortal meeting, that he has gained from it 
something like a reflection of eternity. 



ON THE BANKS OF THE LEMAN. 

I follow the road around the lake, on the route 
which goes from Geneva to Thonon, on the side of 
Savoy. Behind me the town of Calvin disappears in 
a luminous mist, and by the beautiful sun of this late 
season the Cathedral of St. Peter is grandly effective, 
with its two towers dominating the hill, or the old 
Geneva entirely. 

On my left the limpid lake touches the wall which 
borders the road. The transparency of these deep 
waters is a feast for eyes having so long seen the Seine, 
with its sluggish flow and dull tints, and the dark basins 



32 THE VOICE OF NATURE. 

of the canal of Saint Martin, where unhealthy fish grub 
on a slimy bottom. 

Pretty white sea-mews cross in their flights through 
the air. A few steps away a little wild duck, stirring 
about and busy with his work, delivers himself to his 
exercises as diver. One sees him dive, reach the bot- 
tom, head downward, feet in air, nip the grass, stir the 
waved sand, then like a flash remount to the surface, 
to begin again a moment later. How happy this lively 
and fluttering little fisher seems to live. 

In the distance, three boatmen amused themselves 
infinitely less. In a dead calm, on water unwrinkled 
by a breath of air, they tried, by means of their gaffs, 
to push a large boat along loaded with stones. With 
their united efforts their advancement was scarcely 
perceptible. The great trees by the bank calmly looked 
on their efforts, indifferent spectators. Above, in the 
sky, were little white clouds, which remaining motion- 
less are of evil portent to navigators lying-to. Poor 
fellows ! They sadly regarded, from time to time, the 
two immense yards where, like wings, their fine white 
sails hung idly. But these wings, in this hour, are idle 
ornaments. Truly there are in all trades days when 
nothing goes right. That is what I said to myself in 
pursuing my route ; and in the silent air I heard for a 
long time the sound of the wooden shoes of the boat- 
men, as they poled obstinately, their chests bruised by 
pushing against their heavy gaffs. 

At sunset, returning by the same road, all was 
changed. A dry dust flew by mingled with dead 
leaves. The breeze agitated the old elms so lately 



TfrE Voice o^ Mature. 33 

apathetic. Swollen like a swan's wings, the sails 
shivered tinder the wind, and the boat, in its rapid 
march, traced a long white line of foam on the dark 
blue of the lake. One of the men held the rudder, 
singing the while, and two others were stretched out, 
asleep by the side of their poles, letting themselves be 
driven toward the port, like Ulysses, when the pro- 
pitious winds at last carried him toward Ithaca. 

That is what it is to have the wind in one's favor. 
If they had foreseen in the morning the good wind of 
evening, they would not have poled in the afternoon. 
But that good sleep after, would they have known it? 



ABOUT OLD RAGS. 

Last summer, during a little excursion in Charente- 
Infereure, they showed me a very interesting chateau, 
completely restored by the care of the proprietor, an 
architect of talent. This chateau presents the pecu- 
liarity of not having been originally built where it is 
now seen, but a good dozen kilometres farther away. 
Sold several years ago, it was taken down, piece by 
piece, and transferred to this place to a site more in 
conformity with its beauty. 

We shall see how this enterprising proprietor has 
distinguished himself by other memorable actions. 

One day a violent toothache (a happy pain, as re- 
sults show) took him to a dentist of the little village. 
The servant who opened the door for him was just then 
engaged in washing the floor. Our man, worried as 



34 THE VOICE OP NATURE. 

he was with the pain, was none the less struck with 
the curious dress of the servant. To save herself from 
the dirty water she had wrapped herself around, from 
her waist to her feet, with a sort of dull rag, although 
a multi-colored one, which the connoisseur, at first 
glance, knew for a tapestry of great artistic value. 

The offending tooth once out, the patient held a 
short conversation with the dentist, and, as if by 
chance, said: 

"What is that strip of stuff which envelops your 
cook?" 

"That? That is a piece of old tapestry, originating 
I do not know where, which has been lying around here 
a long time. If it interests you, I have others of them." 

"Show them to me." 

And the two went promenading across to an old shed, 
where a much larger fragment of the tapestry served 
to cover a lot of potatoes. Further on another piece 
covered a vat. It was all dirty, torn and without form. 
A bandy-legged Venus, an armless Apollo, made pite- 
ous figures before a Jupiter with his beard pulled out, 
and a bird of Juno without a tail. The visitor recog- 
nized in these poor rags some of the famous Aubusson 
tapestries, and showed his regret to see these precious 
remains put to such vile uses. 

"Would you like them?" said the dentist. "I would 
much prefer a cask of your old cognac." 

The bargain was made. The scraps followed the 
visitor. A cask of cognac, of the value of six or eight 
hundred francs, emigrated to the professional. 

Some years later, the proprietor installed two su- 



THE VOICE OF NATURE. 35 

perb specimens of Aubusson, repaired with the great- 
est care. He had spent a considerable sum (they 
spoke of twenty thousand francs) on this long and 
difficult labor. 

"Come and see your tapestries," he wrote to the den- 
tist. 

The dentist came to see them, but left there furious, 
to begin suit at law. He said he had been deceived, 
robbed, and exhaled his anger all over the county. 

As was just, he lost his suit. A droll story, is it 
not? Yet I guarantee it on every point. 

What if we drew a moral from it ? 

People who guard traditions whose value they do 
not know, resemble this ignoramus of a dentist. They 
allow them to become moth-eaten and covered with 
dust. There comes a clearer mind which draws the 
traditions forth from forgetfulness, cleanses them from 
impurities, completes them in the spirit of old, and 
makes them shine like new and actual things. What 
do the narrow-spirited guardians, with their obtuse in- 
telligence, do? 

For the price of all pains taken, all services rendered, 
they cry "Haro" on the restorer, and try them for 
\ heresy. 



THE TWO CUIRASSIERS. 

The room is vast and old. It is the most spacious 
of that old farm where a path in the Black Forest led 
me. Outside the snow falls slowly and silently. 



36 THE VOICE OF NATURE, 

One would say that among those myriads of flakes, 
suspended in the calm air, each knew whence it 
came and where it goes, and chooses its place before 
settling down. 

Inside is an absolute silence. I hear the breathing of 
an enormous dog asleep under the furnace, and the 
slightest grindings of the wheels in the family clock. 
One has the impression that time is standing still, that 
nothing has ever been, and that there will never be 
anything any more. I let myself sink into the depths 
of solitude and forgetfulness, like into transparent and 
bottomless water. 

In the house, no one. Only a little old woman re- 
mained in the lodge. Seeing me, a hungry tourist, she 
hastened to the kitchen and prepared breakfast. But 
this solitude is so good, this halt so beneficent. I 
would that the good old woman would stay a long 
time — always. 

To my despair, my eyes fell on two large images 
fixed to the wall opposite. They were two cuirassiers 
who formed pendants to a tiny looking-glass. They 
are mounted on two dancing horses, both black, and 
coming at a grand trot. Each man has his sabre drawn, 
and there they are, ready to defend themselves. Why 
must these, two accursed images recall in this tranquil 
place Europe under arms, barracks, manoeuvres, and 
all that follows? Accursed militarism! where have 
you not come to find a nest? 

And I looked at my cuirassiers, from afar at first, 
then closer. From afar they looked like the vulgar 
images that cost ten pfennigs, exact reproductions of 



THE VOICE OF NATURE. 37 

each other. It was surely the two sides of the same 
horse, with the same mane, and the same tail. Height 
and gestures of the riders seemed identical. But seen 
nearer, one saw that they pretended to be portraits of 
persons. A careful examination of the one on the 
right, a handsome blond with the head of a Suabian, 
revealed it to me. Then wishing to see more closely 
the figure of the cavalier on the left, I saw that the 
face was totally lacking. The place was empty. The 
man sat on his horse, stiff, threatening, having the at- 
titude, the presence of a soldier in combat, all except 
the face. This seemed to me to be really singular, and 
I tried to understand it, when a delicious odor of cook- 
ing bacon spread through the room, soon followed by 
the old woman, who busily brought a magnificent 
omelette. 

This was not the moment to speak to this excellent 
person of anything except her work of culinary art. 
And the best way to praise that was to eat it, to con- 
sume it, to do it honor, otherwise than in vain compli- 
ments. I did not fail, and on the benevolent and frank 
face of my hostess I could soon observe the happy effect 
of the mute homage offered by my appetite. 

Conversation was soon established, and I could ask 
her then who were the two conscripts, of whom one 
had no face. 

"They are two brothers/' she said, "but one's face 
came unglued. Our young soldiers of the cavalry 
like this style of portrait. Being proud of their posi- 
tion they dislike to have photographs taken on foot, 
like simple infantry. To be represented each alone on 



38 THE VOICE OF NATURE. 

horseback would cost too dear. So then they take an 
ordinary photograph and cut out their faces and paste 
them on the images all ready for them. That gives 
them a grand air and renders them very glorious ; but 
it is difficult to distinguish them apart, and often, as 
you see, the glue does not stick." 

I quitted the isolated house where I had passed so 
pleasant an hour. By the white peace of the lost paths, 
under the dreamy fir trees loaded with snow, along by 
the rocks where the winter played fantastic tricks with 
frost and ice, I slowly regained the valley. And I 
thought of the men who, to give themselves deport- 
ment and appearance, framed their physiognomies in 
ready-made forms, of all those who take on airs, of a 
style, a language, of dogmas, where their individual 
mind and their individuality is drowned. 

This politician, man of a clique, this believer, party 
man, all the sectarians, prickly, bellicose, on their rear- 
ing hobbies, what are they often? 

The stereotyped reproduction of an image ready- 
made, where their own faces hold but an insignificant 
place, at least, if that face has not disappeared. 



SHELTER. 

Nothing resembles the sea less than the sea itself. 

Yesterday it was blue under a pure sky, and the 

white sails were mirrored in smiling waters. To-day 



THE VOICE OF NATURE. 39 

it growls. It has put on its gray dress of days of 
tempest. The waves break against the rocks with 
much fracas, and in the open, the sailors, wrapped in 
their oilskins, struggle painfully. 

Is the sea grander thus, and more beautiful ? It may 
be that your opinion and mine are indifferent to it. 
It cares nothing as to who may look at it. The proof 
of that is that it launches at everyone spray and sheets 
of water. Decidedly, there are days where one will do 
well not to approach it. 

I withdrew into this pine forest to see and hear the 
sea without being spattered. The place where I am 
resembles a battlefield. It is not here where the 
zephyrs have their homes. 

Seated on the powerful trunk of a fallen pine, I see 
nothing about me but ruins encumbering the ground. 
Broken branches, shafts shattered midway, splinters of 
wood thrown far. Everywhere the traces of the vio- 
lence of the elements. I have just seen the pendant 
of that in a neighboring beach, where appear, half 
submerged by sand, the mast and keel of a vessel. 

In a great number of things one always discovers 
something comic. This great pine, checked in its fall 
by two neighbors and catching on both sides by its 
branches, does it not look like a drunkard returning to 
his home sustained by the shoulders of two charitable 
companions ? 

But here comes the rain. Fine and hard, it walks 
rather than falls. The wind drives it and throws it 
in your face. The place becomes untenable. What 
shall I do? To return to the lodge would be too silly. 



40 THE VOICE OF NATURE. 

Let me take refuge under that tuft of green oaks. Im- 
provised seats show that someone else has found refuge 
here before. One would say he was in a room. 
Neither rain nor wind can reach you. The marvelous 
hiding place ! And how interesting to observe ! On 
the side of the ground one enters it as though entering 
a cave. On the side of the sea it has the form of a roof 
beginning on a level with the ground and rising in a 
slanting direction up to a height of three or four yards. 
All the trees which form it are inclined. The wind has 
literally laid them low. Their attitude evokes the re- 
membrance of the furious tempests before which all 
bends and breaks. By continually bending the trunk 
they have contracted a definite curvature. 

Their rough trunks, full of knots, have ended by 
becoming deformed, and are twisted like a slave's body 
under the lash. 

But they had pushed out on their backs innumerable 
little branches, forming a fleece. It is so thick that one 
could sleep on it without fear. Sometimes ivy, black- 
berry vines, or other climbing plants come to mingle 
their branches among the oak tv/igs, and the nest "b^ 
comes thicker still. 

And little by little it forms a roof as firm as a thatch, 
and under which one is completely sheltered. 

Without the violence of the assaults endured, these 
trees would, like others, have grown straight. But 
their trunks, higher and more slender, would have been 
naked below. The rain and the wind would pass at 
their ease, and the traveler would find no protection 
there. 



THE VOICE OF NATURE. ±\ 

The more I look, the more my sympathy and atten- 
tion are attracted to them. A soul's history seems to 
me to be traced in their vaultings and their entangled 
twistings. 

There are helpful souls, souls hospitable and sure, 
gentle with the wounded ones of earth, comforting to 
weary travelers. Near them we feel in security, 
destiny seems less obscure, man less wicked, God 
nearer. 

Penetrate, if you are capable and worthy, the secret 
of those souls. You will find there the traces of strug- 
gles, scars and mutilations. It is because they are 
bent that they guarantee us. Their torment has made 
shelters of them. And once more does Nature offer a 
symbol of the soul. 

Never more will I go and sit down under the little 
green oaks of the wild coast without thinking of you, 
bruised hearts, made sacred by trials and misery, and 
who, having known tears, have learned to console 
others. 



HOW WE MAKE ENEMIES. 

In doing evil actions, do you believe? You are not 
wrong. But often also in doing kind actions we reach 
the same result. This is the proof of it. 

Under a leafy green oak, on which a climbing vine 
thickened the shade, the family takes a meal. Parents 



42 THE VOICE OF NATURE. 

and children do it honor, for they have returned from 
the seashore, through the deep woods, and everyone 
knows that the salt air sharpens the appetite, and every- 
one knows that hunger reigns in the forest since it 
drives even the wolf out. 

Attentive to the needs of his family, the father 
carves and serves each with meat and drink. It was a 
race as to who should first ask bread or meat or hand 
his empty cup with an eloquent gesture. As to the 
youngest child, he asked nothing, for he had been fed, 
and the satisfied nursling sleeps in his hammock with 
closed fists. 

Soon, in the dish occupying the center of the table, 
nothing remained of the roast but the bone. "What a 
fine bone for a dog !" cried one of the children. Scarce- 
ly had he finished speaking when a fine bloodhound 
came out of the thicket. Whence came he? Who 
can tell? Doubtless he was hungry, too, and the 
smell of the roast meat had guided him. 

He was, besides, so polite, so discreet, neither ag- 
gressive nor teasing. Seated five paces away, he 
wagged his tail, lifted his head, and his quivering nos- 
trils seemed to consult the perfumes of the meal. So 
much modesty gained all the votes. Impossible to re- 
fuse so courteous a solicitor ; all are agreed, they treat 
him like an old acquaintance. Each one threw him a 
bone, and when he had eaten them, they gave him the 
one on the platter. Papa even went so far as to give 
him a drink in his own dish. The dog crunched all, 
lapped all and licked the dish clean, while his eyes said 
"more." 



THE VOICE OF NATURE. 43 

Too bad ; there is no more. 

What will he do, do you think? Retire in thanking 
us after his fashion? Not at all; he gave us a cross 
look, showed his teeth and began to bark in his loudest 
voice. The children were afraid, and the baby awoke, 
frightened. It became necessary to drive the guest 
away with stones. 

And that is how, with the best efforts, we make 
enemies. 

This dog is the image of certain people to whom you 
have done kind acts, rendered service, sacrificed your 
time, loaned your money, opened your house and table. 
When you have nothing more to offer them they con- 
sider it as an offence, and leave you, showing their 
fists. 



WITHOUT A WATCH. 

In the olden times no one possessed the exact time. 
They counted time, grosso modo, on sun-dials or by 
hour-glasses, often very imperfect. If the sun veiled 
his face, or the slave, whose duty it was to turn the 
hour-glass, fell asleep, the hour was lost. To find it 
again they had to go to their neighbors, or wait until 
a cloudless sky and the sun, that great regulator of 
chronology, fixed the time at noon. 

To-day everyone has his watch. There are watches 
of all prices and kinds. Some, at the end of a solid 
chain, might serve, by whirling it, as an arm of defence. 
They recall by their size the famous "onions" of Nur- 



44 THE VOICE OF NATURE. 

emberg. Others are so small that one might swallow 
them with impunity. It would be difficult, in melting 
all the precious metal in them, to obtain enough gold to 
fill an American's tooth. These tiny watches nestle in 
collars, belts, bracelets, and even in rings. But the 
army of watches does not suffice. We add to these 
useful, portable articles the heavy artillery of large 
and small clocks, and alarm clocks besides. 

And do we know the time any better? That is a 
question. So many clocks are in their dotage and so 
many are out of order, without counting those that will 
not go. But we are determined to know the time day 
and night. If the ancients were troubled about the 
hours, we are troubled about minutes and seconds. 

With the present organization of our life it is in- 
dispensable to know the train time, that of the boat, 
theater, carriages, lyceums, schools, boarding-houses, 
military and administrations, and is an essential condi- 
tion of a regular activity. In the bosom of the daily 
movement, in that buzzing hive which we call civilized 
life, a man without the time is a lost man. 

The time spurs and hurries us. Watch the people 
running, and consulting from time to time their 
watches, anxiously looking at the big public clocks, and 
those in the windows which, oh, torture ! indicate a 
different hour for each. The train will leave them, 
the school-door will be closed, the banks will have 
stopped business for the day, the foreman where you 
work will fine you. They are slaves of time, and not 
one can forget for one single minute that time is 
monev., 



THE VOICE OF NATURE. 4g 

Do not be so foolish as to inconvenience yourselves. 
It is always permitted us to find this tyranny of the 
time insupportable. Have you ever eaten at a railway 
station restaurant, hurried through a dinner in twenty 
minutes, haunted every moment by the sinister cry of 
the butler, "ten minutes more; five minutes more"? 
These dinners at the buffet are the image of our hasty 
and worried life. I always want to tell that butler, 
with his fatal brow, this miniature Satan, to "Get along, 
get along with your ten minutes." 

In a reunion of friends where they talk and give up 
an hour, if anyone should take out his watch, I should 
feel like confiscating it. 

What, because we were born in the nineteenth cen- 
tury, must we be constrained to have hanging forever 
above our heads that continual menace of the hour that 
flies or is coming? The tick-tack of a clock will domi- 
nate over all other music. We shall be fixed on that ob- 
session of the time as insects are stuck on the paste- 
board of a collection. 

No, indeed ! It is one of the rights of men also to 
cease to wear the harness of counted days, and to live 
forgetful of watchmakers. However numerous the 
wished-for pleasures for which we render life*bitter, all 
of us, I abandon them to you. Is there one which 
values the forgetting of time to race at hazard through 
the deep woods or on the solitary beach? To the 
tempter who may come in these lonely paths and offer 
to tell me the hour on his first-class chronometer, and 
in addition offer to give me the chronometer as a pres- 
ent, I would say, "Get thee behind me, Satan." 



4(5 THE VOICE OF NATURE. 

A certain watchmaker, being something of a joker, 
procured for me, for a whole month, the advantage of 
having no watch. A wave of salt water had touched 
mine. It stopped instantly. Salt-water baths, it seems, 
are fatal to those machines. Under the pretence of 
repairing the damage, this malignant artist, to whom 
the watch had been taken, kept it long weeks. Should 
I ever see it again ? I began to weary of the pleasure 
of being separated from it. While waiting for it I owe 
to that incident exquisite impressions. Whole days, 
all in one piece, without seam or cut ; vast days where 
it seemed that time had ceased to fly and had made a 
pause. Then, as it is sometimes necessary to know 
if it is the hour of repasts, or that of sleep, I owed the 
knowledge to signs which served to mark the time. 
What a bourgeois fashion, not to say stupid, to pull 
out one's watch and to say, "It is forty minutes after 
five !" It is as dry and prosaic as possible. How 
much more poetic and more interesting to say, "It is 
such an hour, because the shadows lengthen, the flow- 
ers close their petals, the rabbit begins to leave his 
hiding-place, the fish approach the land, the moon is 
rising, or the chickens go to roost !" When one has a 
watch one ends by no longer noticing these signs, 
charming in themselves, and which keep us in contact 
with the great universal life. The time becomes an 
abstraction, a mathematical quantity, a skeleton. It 
loses the color and the seal of living things. 



I advise everyone to hang his watch up sometimes, 



THE VOICE OF NATURE. 47 

unless he prefers to put it in pawn. Besides, to facili- 
tate the experience, I assert my readiness to furnish the 
address of my watchmaker. 



WITHOUT A PURSE. 

Many things stupefy the heart, or insensibly harden 
it. One of these is the inveterate habit of having 
money: When that habit has come down from many 
generations, and atavism is mingled with it, the case 
is still worse. I regard as a happy, ephemeral acci- 
dent that which comes to cut the thread of such a ter- 
rible habit once in a while. 

The more familiar one becomes with money, the less 
one knows its value and its part. Is it to go too far to 
say that our purse is one of those friends whom we 
must distrust as much as our enemies ? Not only is it 
too complaisant, too ready to settle accounts with our 
imprudences, our prodigalities and our follies. Not 
only does it constitute for weak characters a perpetual 
temptation, but it also causes isolation. It hinders us 
from feeling the distress of others deeply. By having 
money at all times one at last begins to think that it is 
unnatural not to have it, and they risk believing that 
poverty is an aberration, if not imposture. 

Happy is he who loses his purse, or clever pickpock- 
ets relieve him of it. For the moment he complains and 
groans, but the trial is salutary, and the lessons which 



48 THE VOICE OF NATURE. 

it contains are precious. No contents of a purse is 
worth them. 

And at first there is rather an agreeable side to the 
accident; I might say, honey in the chalice. 

You have just been robbed. If you are in a country 
where you are known, everyone hastens to your aid. 
They pay your omnibus, they take you to breakfast, 
they lend you money, they even go so far as to offer 
you their purses. Are these witnesses nothing? You 
can get along without them, you say. That is not your 
real thought. Whoever has not a bad heart will ad- 
mit that they love him, and in case of need they would 
deprive themselves for his sake. However hard we 
have tried to be positive, skeptics, insensible, a little 
kindness touches us in depths where the purse does not 
count. 

Still, if it is written that some day you will lose your 
purse, ask that it shall be on neighboring coasts. On 
stranger soil and among unknown people it would be 
different. Then you would taste the dregs of the 
chalice. 

You have just been deprived of your money. From 
one moment to another you are to be excommunicated. 
Yes, excommunicated ! There exists through the 
whole world a federation to which money associates us. 
Have, then, a little, you form a part of the fraternity. 
You have the means of passing where you will, of 
opening all doors, the means of making yourself es- 
teemed and understood. As soon as your money is 
gone, your whole person is put in question. I sup- 
pose, in fact, that they do not know you. 



THE VOICE OF NATURE. 49 

With money you can procure shelter and food with- 
out showing your credentials. Without money, try to 
buy a little loaf of bread or to pass a night under a 
roof, and you will see surprising things. As soon as 
your money is lacking you will find yourself exposed to 
the most indiscreet questions. Who are you, sir? 
Whence have you come? Have you certificates, 
recommendations ? For, in fact, by what right do you 
ask bread and a shelter? Am I sure of dealing with 
a decent man? 

Do not tax me with exaggeration. These things 
happen every day. Pure illusion, to believe in the 
credit of good people. Their honesty does not cover 
any but those among their own class, their compatriots. 
A name, however honorable, a loyal hand, the coun- 
tenance of a good man, protect one within a certain 
radius only. Beyond that their power diminishes, and 
even ceases entirely. Everybody cannot know you. 
As to your physiognomy, do not count upon it; so 
many impostors have a mask of virtue. 

No, there is no direct and sure means of making 
others accept one as a man of means in a strange coun- 
try when one is without resources, without notoriety, 
without any backing. And yet, I would not have you 
be entirely without some trials of this kind. They will 
cause you to reflect, and make you more humane. 
Nothing makes a man respect misery, nor hinders him 
from treating too harshly a passer like a vagabond, 
like having been once in the place of this passer, sus- 
pected of vagabondage. Few vicissitudes are so cruel 
as that of not knowing where to dine, nor sleep, andisee 



5Q THE VOICE OF NATURE. 

doors shut by people who are not half your equal. But 
if these rude rubbings of existence, these cavalier treat- 
ments, make us better and more clement, the experience 
is never too dearly bought. Take your trouble in 
patience, and even, if you believe me, try to seize the 
pleasant side. Any imbecile can be gay at home at his 
own table, among his friends and acquaintances, while 
in the bosom of social security. He has more wealth 
than he deserves, and enjoys a prestige often exag- 
gerated. But to keep one's good humor when fortune 
plays you a hangman's trick, takes away your mark, 
declasses you and treats you like a barefoot, in that 
consists heroism. And in any case, that is not trifling. 

And, besides, when those unhappy days have passed, 
aside from the acquired experience, one has the benefit 
of interesting recollections. 

Just here one of this very sort surges up in my 
memory. Why not tell it to you ? 

It was in Heidelberg, in July, 1875, one Sunday 
night. I was returning from Goettengen on the way 
to Strasburg. But I stopped there to see one of the 
prettiest cities of Germany, and to hear some discourses 
by illustrious professors, on Monday. 

I had passed the evening with one of them. In 
leaving his house I took a fancy to count my money in 
the moonlight. By what curious phenomenon was it 
that I found my purse almost empty? I do not know. 
But the fact was that there remained exactly enough 
to pay my passage to Strasburg, and make a frugal 
breakfast "on my thumb" in the morning. That was 
all. The least unexpected thing would reduce me to 



THE VOICE OF NATURE. §\ 

the most painful extremity. What should I do? Re- 
turn to the savant who had invited me ? It distressed 
me to think of soliciting a place to sleep on, or to bor- 
row. Take the night train for Alsace ? But I wanted, 
to see Heidelberg, and hear Kuno Vischer, To leave 
in the night would have seemed to me to be unworthy 
of a man. 

My resolution was soon taken. I would pass the 
night under the stars. After all, on such a night it was 
almost a pleasure, and that would distinguish me from 
so many folk, who go stupidly to their rooms, by a 
sort of old routine, and sleep every night in their beds. 

So I did. Already I began to taste of the sweetness 
of this out-door slumber, when a storm suddenly broke, 
and constrained me to quickly seek a refuge in the 
station. About two o'clock in the morning an em- 
ploye closed the waiting-room. He put me out with- 
out form or process, brutally, as one might chase a dog. 
I ended by finding an abandoned shed, where I took 
refuge; and this night under the stars made me see 
anything but the stars. 

But in the morning the sky cleared. Having washed 
in the Neckar, at daybreak, I went up to the castle. 
The sun came up. On every tree scintillated drops of 
dew like diamonds. On every twig a bird sang. The 
air was pure, all Nature joyous, and the solitude ab- 
solute. On the lower branches of an old oak a squir- 
rel sat nibbling a hazel nut. He allowed me to ap- 
proach, fearlessly. I could have touched him with the 
end of my cane. The blackbirds came walking almost 
beneath my feet. How confiding they are ! I thought. 



52 THE VOICE OF NATURE. 

Could they. have understood that, like them, I had no 
money ? 

I do not know what it was : the intoxication of joy 
that made me wish to sing in this early light, and to 
feel myself freer because I was poorer for the mo- 
ment. 

I would not give the remembrance of this experience 
for a purse full, and persuaded that it is for your good, 
I wish you, friend reader, above all, if you are young 
and fortunate, to find yourself sometimes without 
money. 



A FISHING PARTY. 

The evening was pleasant, the sea was at ebb, arid 
idly and almost noiselessly came up to expire at our 
feet. What if we were to go net fishing? This is the 
moment or never. 

That is what we thought aloud, my friend and I, the 
other evening, and as soon as said we began to put 
the project in motion. But to fish in this manner, 
what is that? asks the landsman. It means to- drag 
along the sandy beach a net thirty or forty metres long, 
and take therein the fish that approach the shore. 

To do that under the best conditions there must be 
five or six, and seek the most solitary places, where the 
fish are not disturbed by people continually passing. 

Here, opposite the lighthouse of Cordouan, the best 
beaches are those of the Grand-Cote and Bonne-Anse. 
Ten or twelve kilometres of route — a bagatelle. We set 



THE VOICE OF NATURE. 53 

ourselves at once to search companions ; that is to say, 
men not afraid of getting wet or of passing a sleepless 
night. 

And we found two professors, one from Bergerac, 
the other from Geneva, and also a locksmith and his 
apprentice. The locksmith's mother-in-law owned a 
donkey, with a name really predestined to this sort of 
escapades. She was called Sardine. Sardine was 
harnessed to a cart where there was room for the seine 
and our fishing clothes. Then she took the road while 
we followed the beach, hitting the cool, firm sand with 
our bare feet as we went. 

Toward eleven o'clock we reached the end of our 
road, an isolated hut in a deserted immensity, dotted 
here and there with thin bunches of rushes. Sardine 
was installed in the hut ; and we, tied up and rigged in 
old woolen garments, put the seine in the water. 

This is how it is done. Four men walk in front 
drawing on a strong rope, a fifth is at the other end 
and remains close to the shore. The sixth carries the 
bag. This is an uncertain condition for him. When 
they catch nothing it is a sinecure; if they make a 
good haul he must suffer the consequences. 

We walked along without speaking a word, with a 
regular step, pulling, pulling on the rope, with the 
water up to our armpits. The red fire of the Cordouan, 
the electric flashes from the lighthouse of the Coubre 
lighted us from the distance, and from the dark sky 
twinkled the stars so that there fell light enough to 
direct us. But what struck us the most was the phos- 
phorescence of the water. As soon as one touched 



54 THB VOICE OF NATURE. 

the water it darted fires. Our bodies were surrounded 
by circles of light. The seine, in gliding through the 
waves, threw off white lights ; and near us, under the 
surface, we could distinguish rapid flashes, some large 
and others small, and thin like rays. It was the tracks 
of the fish, flat or long, flying from the trap. 

Suddenly, from behind us, a whistle sounded shrilly. 
It was the signal to draw in. So we made an oblique 
turn toward the shore, and with a slow effort, our 
legs straining, we drew back the net made heavy by the 
water, the algae and the sand. At last it was on 
shore, and everyone sprang to look at it. White was 
seen. This was a good sign. A half dozen of mullets 
were there showing their silvery flanks. The bearer 
of the sack gathered them up eagerly. Then search- 
ing all parts of the net by the light of the lantern, 
turning the seaweeds over, and feeling in the sand, 
we found soles, small turbots, and rayfish with their 
poisonous darts, which all avoided touching. 

As soon as the net was emptied, a cry sounded out, 
"To the water," and with water still trickling down us 
we went in again. 

We returned to the water ten times, fifteen times. 
Sometimes the net was almost empty — that was a de- 
ception. But hope animated the workers ; and besides, 
the night was so perfect! That alone sufficed for our 
pains. At other times the seine brought in good for- 
tune. A large turbot fought among the meshes and 
slapped the sand with his tail, such noisy, resounding 
slaps as rejoiced the hearts of the fishers. All of 



THE VOICE OF NATURE. 55 

them were engulfed in the sack, and the bearer be- 
gan to sweat like a porter. But it was two o'clock in 
the morning and the tide was rising rapidly. Already 
those who held the rope in front had received big salt 
waves and lost their footing for the moment. Wet 
completely over their heads, they renounced the labor, 
folded the seine and carried it to the cart. Sardine 
started back with the booty and the bundles of wet 
clothes. The fishers, in dry garments, walked back. 

But at this trade the appetite develops. So the lock- 
smith took care to light a fire in his spacious workshop 
and improvise a supper. Sardine had reached home 
first. At the moment when we reached there a de- 
lightful odor of frying fish came to our senses, and we 
did them full honor — our fish conquered from the 
ocean in fair fight. "How fresh they are, and how 
delicious !" That was what we said while eating, and 
drinking the thin wine of the country. And in the 
earliest morning light, to the accompaniment of the 
song of the larks, which darted above, we regained our 
domiciles with our portions of the catch. 

In very truth, if anyone offered me choice of the 
most varied pleasures, I should choose this one: to 
cast my seine at the big shore on a starlit night. 



WHEAT. 

Certain products of the earth, more than others, 
have a sacred character. Among them is wheat. 



56 THE VOICE OF NATURE. 

With the Greeks, Ceres appears before us always 
crowned with blades of wheat. The seed of wheat, 
among the Egyptians, was the symbol of immortality. 
With Christianity, by the bread which Christ broke, 
one evening, in sign of sacrifice and of the eternal 
communion, one could say that wheat has entered into 
the apotheosis. 

Nothing which concerns it is indifferent to me. 
What poetry in the sowing of it ! Regarding the black 
furrows, to which laborious hands confide the bread of 
to-morrow, Victor Hugo shows us the luminous even- 
ing: 

"Reaching high, e'en to the stars, 
The august gesture of the sower." 

Jean Aicard sings : 

"That the great Napoleon dies, 
And that they live fifty years in peace, 
Thousands will laugh where but one weeps ; 
But let the bread fail at its hour, 
The stupidest laughs not for fears." 

From the day when it peeps out of the ground 
to meet the last rays of the October sunshine, through 
the long hibernal sleep, the awakening in the spring, 
until the harvest in August, an uneasy attention fol- 
lows the evolution of this blade of tender wheat, des- 
tined to become the nourishment of men. 

In June is the high tide of these green waves, starred 



THE VOICE OF NATURE. 57 

with poppies and bluets. In the midst of these waves 
one sees apple trees stand out like islets. The cry of 
the quail sounds through the paths. And above, the 
lark, with its inexhaustible throat, shakes out his 
rosary of pearls. 

In July the yellowed fields are like gold. One could 
say, as the ripened heads brush against each other 
with the wind, that one heard the grains falling into the 
measures. The bread sings on foot on dry days, but 
if the horizon is veiled, a shudder runs through the 
stalks, like in the hearts of the peasants. It suffices 
for a storm to destroy the year's labor. 

At last the harvest, the barn, the threshers. Then the 
grinding at the mill, and the dough of the bakers or 
the housewives. The bread is on the table. Before 
you eat of it think that it is the fruit of the toil of man, 
of the sun and of God. Take it in gratitude and 
brotherhood. Do not allow a crumb to be lost. Break 
it willingly with those who have none. As the wind 
blows, the spring gushes, as the morning shines, the 
wheat must grow for all. 



And it is this wheat, liberal gift of God, laborious 
conquest of toilers ; this wheat which all creatures wait 
for, which nourishes the widow, sustains the orphan; 
it is this wheat which you stake, and confiscate, mon- 
opolist! You put your hand on that which belongs 
to none. Have you the right to hide the sun, to make 
yourself gold from its rays? Have you the right to 



58 THE VOICE OF NATURE. 

capture the springs? You have no greater right to 
monopolize wheat. Your commerce is an infamy, a 
crime against humanity. It is a general shame that 
you are allowed to exercise it. Do not speak to me 
of liberty. The liberty of these makers of famine is 
privation, hunger, sicknesses, misery, death for the 
most suffering and the most interesting ones among 
us. 

A woman steals a loaf of bread because she is re- 
duced to the last extremities. There are logicians 
who declare it to be dangerous not to impose punish- 
ment on that act of anarchy. Impunity for such a 
wrong-doing might bring forth imitators. 

How it is reasoned, that, how scrupulously just it 
is, with that strict justice which is the sister of iniquity ! 

But if it is dangerous that someone should take a 
little loaf of bread, what would it be if that other 
awards himself mountains of wheat, and puts the key 
to his storehouses into his pocket? To usurp the right 
to take a little loaf through hunger, that is anarchy, 
you say ? I accord you that ; but so thin ! You must 
look at it closely to be able to see it. To monopolize 
the wheat is monumental, gigantic anarchy. It is an 
act of hostility against the whole human race. 

So monstrous a privilege claimed by one alone, is 
the rights of multitudes rolled under foot. They find 
it simple, however. 

As to me, known or unknown, I hate you, you who 
speculate on the bread. I put you in the ranks of the 
slave-dealers. There is blood on your hands and on 
your money. 



THE VOICE OP NATURE. 59 

Profaners, blasphemers, accursed traffickers, hu- 
manity must be a flock of sheep to tolerate such wolves ! 



A PEST. 

The train rolled toward the country where the 
springtime, so long desired and so slow to come, had 
at last made its entry. And the eyes of the travelers 
saturated with gray wintry tint, of narrow streets, and 
roofs spiny with chimneys, reposed on the snow of 
cherry blossoms, on the tender springing grass and the 
length of the woods and hedges. 

Man will never tire of seeing Nature awaken from 
her long sleep. When the peach trees dress them- 
selves again in pink, the pear trees in white, and the 
buds on the apple trees burst forth, leaving bunches 
of flowers to flow out of their torn envelopes, the sad- 
dest takes a new hold on life, and, as wine ferments in 
the cellar, in the season when the sap mounts to the 
shoots of the vine, human hope is reborn in the uni- 
versal renewal. 

Why must the whole mercantile tribe of grocers 
and storekeepers of that quality have discovered it, 
too? That race is pitiless as it is without ideality. 
We are created and put into the world to acquire their 
products and bear their advertisements. In public 
conveyances where we go, in the books that we open, 



(JO THE VOICE OF NATURE. 

on the bench where we seek repose, on the wall in 
front of us, at the bottom of our plates and of our 
glasses, everywhere the desire for notoriety pursues us. 
The day has for its wound the posters; the night, the 
gas lamps which flood the eyes with their alternatives 
of dazzling light or dense darkness. At the theater, 
between the acts a curtain falls. You leave the so- 
ciety of the poets and become the prey of the indis- 
creet cloth which thus imposes its advertisements on 
your attention. Turn your eyes from the curtain and 
you will find the same advertisements in the paper in 
which you are trying to take refuge. At last you 
leave — you escape toward the fields, dreaming of puri- 
fying your eyes of all that multi-colored orgy. Alas! 
if you thought to behold Nature in peace, you count 
without your host, my friend. YoUr taste for Nature 
will serve the commercial interests. These are the 
first of all the interests; they will not allow you to 
forget it. 

You love to see the daisies star the fields. Good ! It 
is there that they will paste the poster which you must 
see. Suddenly, in the full joy of contemplation, you 
will see, flamboyant on a placard, "Bornibus Mustard/' 

A pretty corner of the woods seems to wish to at- 
tract your eyes ; quickly they place there an advertise- 
ment, "Pneu Michelin." 

In the field of Luzerne the "Biberon Robert" watches 
for you — on a roof is ambuscaded "Jambon Olida" or 
"Chocolat Suchard." 

And the farther you go, the more the scandal grows. 
Soon the sides of the railroad become a palisade of 



THE VOICE OF NATURE. (Q 

enormous boards, on which a lot of emulsions, and 
other things, impudently force your attention. No 
more free horizon, no more views which the eyes may 
seek from the windows. Between the advertisements 
of cocoa, beer, biscuits and shoes there might be places 
left had they not been taken by the different news- 
papers, each crazy to proclaim its million readers. The 
flotsam of the sea, the rocky flanks of the mountains, 
have suffered from the impure contact of the poster. 
Under their slave's livery they vaunt the glory of hotel- 
keepers and the delights of the casino. 

Where will this inhuman fury end? For a long 
time more, I fear, we will be condemned to see its 
progress. 

But in spite of the disgust with which it inspires me, 
I hate less this hideous travesty of our civilization than 
I hate an analogous flood sapping the spiritual world. 
Of this flood, the most extravagant advertising is but 
a feeble image. 

It may be fastidious to fall into the hands of these 
makers of notoriety, but at least the conscience is not 
crushed so long as it relates solely to mustard, boot- 
blacking, cigarette paper, or spectacles that will not 
fall from your nose. The situation grows worse rapid- 
ly when you become the prey of these merchants of 
antidotes for political poison, and of sacred mounte- 
banks. The commercial advertisement wishes nothing 
of us but our pennies. The other, when it says to us, 
"Take my bear," disposes itself to take us to them- 
selves. Do you not find it odious to think that you 
are the gudgeon or carp sought for by these astute 



62 THE VOICE OF NATURE. 

fishermen? If you do not care you are more philoso- 
phic than I am, or you have the temperament of a 
batrachian. God knows how difficult it is now to avoid 
the industrials dreaming of capturing us for the bene- 
fit of a party. Their numberless engines are raised 
everywhere. They operate night and day, on land and 
sea, on voyage and at table. Hide yourself in no mat- 
ter what solitude, they await you there. Not satisfied 
with speculating on grown men, they spread their 
operations to infancy. There is no age that is shel- 
tered from their temptations. Even if they worked 
from good motives, to enlighten men, to convince them 
and lead them to the right road ! But that is the least 
of their cares. It suffices to outline them,. To lead 
them to a point where they will allow them to do, is to 
praise pure doctrine but little — they must deny that of 
their neighbors. The most active commercial opposi- 
tion has invented nothing that has not been surpassed 
by these parties, to blacken and diminish each other. 
Three accidents, to-day, are to be feared; and, not to 
be too much surprised, each one should expect them : 
to be photographed unknown to oneself, and in the 
most singular attitudes ; to be crushed by an automov 
bile ; fall into the hands of people who alone are right, 
alone have invented powder, alone love their country, 
alone know and unveil the mysteries of the universe and 
the plans of God. The human soul is the temple, and 
they alone have the sale of it. They have transformed 
it into a stock exchange, where each one cries his stocks 
to the end that he may lower those of his opponent. I 
detest them. I fly from them. A pestiferous rat is 



THE VOICE OF NATURE. g3 

less horrible to me than these men of obstinate ideas, 
these incorrigibles of the divine. 



But this is stopping too long before irritating abuses. 
Let us pass into an evil more subtle, but more perfidi- 
ous. I wish to speak of the engrossment of the in- 
terior world by ready-made opinions, being installed 
almost everywhere. Have you ever had the pleasure 
of treading over snow virgin of every human step? 
That is a thing not easy to procure in this horribly 
trodden world of thought. Men have devised the map 
of the infinite, and put their signs, driven their stakes, 
set their tickets thereon. One cannot walk there with- 
out meeting a cicerone offering you his arm, or a pre- 
decessor publishing his pretension of receiving you. 
This monopoly of the world by closed systems resem- 
bles certain places where all is in gardens, and where 
the walls between which you walk hinder your view. 
The worst is that these pretended masters of the uni- 
verse are only masters in partibus. That which they 
call the world is but painted canvas, masking the real 
truth from us. They hinder us from thinking, seeing, 
searching for ourselves. 

They make us live in an artificial creation, and steri- 
lize the mind. I pity the man who is embarrassed in 
the thoughts of another, poor fly entangled in a spider's 
web. I pity the unhappy one who cannot think with- 
out slipping in the rut of a remembrance, nor seek to 
express an idea without falling into a reminiscence. 



(34, THE VOICE OF NATURE. 

Now, this man is the actual civilized one. His mind 
disappears under the impressions of the mind of an- 
other, like the skin of a Kanaka under his tattooings. 

The greater part of us have no idea of the unhappi- 
ness that has come to them ; they show it as the equal 
of a distinction. And, above all, they take their pre- 
cautions to the end that their children shall be victims 
of it in their turn. 

Our education is a conspiracy against originality, a 
vast plot against the danger of thinking for themselves. 
To kill their curiosity under a mass of teachings al- 
ready made — to occupy every minute of time so that 
there can nothing of his personality enter in it, that 
is the principle. 

If a fissure is found, if the programme is not her- 
metically sealed, stop the crevice with lessons carefully 
arranged, obligatory distractions of the conventional, 
and in sum, of the borrowed. 

The social misfortune which we fear the most, in 
point of view of the children, is that they are driven 
by events, out of the organized society and its shelter, 
to live the life of vagabonds. But what is this disaster 
in comparison with that which menaces the man who 
has chosen his way outside of the beaten roads? He 
is, in the eyes of the bourgeois-minded, a vagabond 
without fire or home, and, what is worse, he is sus- 
pected to have fabricated his papers himself. 

When I think of all these things a great homesick- 
ness comes over me for a new world, intact with un- 
explored paths, where the soul, alone with this great 
mystery, will never be troubled by the offer of an in- 



THE VOICE OF NATURE. (55 

terpreter. I dream of the gospels where no commenta- 
tor has left the print of his fingers, of springs yet hid- 
den, of marvels not catalogued. 

But who knows? In that beautiful solitude would 
I not soon regret my fellow-beings and the comforting 
warmth of their contact? 

The horror of the unknown world would take posses- 
sion of my soul, and, doubtless, on my return from that 
distant and perilous pilgrimage, as one salutes from 
afar the smoke from the paternal roof, which, however, 
would greatly discommode us in the room, I would 
salute, as a happy augury, the first poster, and I should 
embrace, like a brother, the first camlet I met. 



FLIES. 



We could get along without them. But their de- 
termination to live is very positive. They lay legions 
of eggs, a gage for the future. It is impossible to 
hope for their destruction, we will have them always. 
Their ancestors buzzed about the earth before man ap- 
peared, and over the remains of our race, when it shall 
have disappeared, their descendants will dodge about 
in the sunshine. 

While waiting we are at liberty to think what we 
would of them, and to say it publicly. 

You will scarcely believe me, regarding this irritat- 



66 THE VOICE OF NATURE. 

ing subject, if I promise to say nothing but good of 
these six-footed ladies. What would it be if the little 
beasts were to take the pen — if horses, cattle, all these 
martyrs, bitten, depleted, bruised and beaten, could give 
expression to their feelings when the ardent dog-star 
delivers them to that cloud of butchers? 



I have reason to suppose that in the flies' camp they 
have a slight idea of my intentions. An incredible in- 
stinct distinguishes all the whole plague of them. We 
do not say, without some reason, "A smart fly." Ever 
since my arrival in this forest of fir trees, where I pro- 
pose to treat them according to their deserts, innumer- 
able swarms buzz around me. 

Gad-flies with empty suckers, terror of beasts of bur- 
den — and who take me for a ruminant — are here. 
Mosquitoes, slender, and delicate of taste for human 
blood. Big black flies, pest of cheeses and butchers, 
hideous mothers of the horrible maggot. These are 
the vile creatures, always drunken with rottenness, who 
take upon themselves the duty of inoculating us with 
carbuncles, and to carry complacently any quantity of 
contagion. 

Then there is the ordinary house-fly, those of res- 
taurants, of kitchens, of soups, having for their tomb 
a plate of honey or a cup of milk. Let him, who never 
served as the sarcophagus of a fly lift his hand. Much 
may be pardoned this fly, for it does not bite, and 
amuses the scholar in his class, and the prisoner in his 



THE VOICE OF NATURE. @7 

cell. It is much better than you, meadow-fly, little 
hypocrite, with your azure wings, with all the color of 
the rainbow in your eyes, but with a sharp sting — 
pretty as a coliber, wicked as the itch. 

It is not enough that all that list of vermin surround 
me. Imperceptible gnats also make a part of that 
manifest conspiracy. Flying in insupportable swarms, 
they do not realize anything of my discomfort, that is 
plain. 

I am their thing. When it pleases them my nos- 
trils serve them as a promenade, my ears their orches- 
tral hall, and my eyes their bath. 

Swarming race of flies, who shall ever number you, 
unless he has first counted the stars of heaven and the 
sands of the sea? Is there a number large enough to 
hold all your kinds and tribes ? No ; that would be to 
push impertinence to its fullest measure. Who would 
dare to ask a man this question, "What fly is biting 
you ?" Can one know, among so many evil-doing in- 
sects, which one has chosen you for victim? 

I understand that by a sort of respect to the Divine 
Goodness antiquity hesitated to attribute to Him the 
creation of flies, and they preferred to charge a certain 
evil genius, called Beelzebub, with having made them, 
and they called him the god of flies. What a proof 
of universal execration ! And how the flies try to make 
themselves worthy ! I see them at work now, at this 
hour, where I am the point of attack of their concen- 
trated resentment. They have sworn, in lifting their 
unclean feet, that I shall not finish this article, where 
the honor of the corporation is attacked; and it will 



68 THE VOICE OP NATURE. 

not be their fault if the oath remains vain. Oh, what 
an infernal collaboration, in this assault of all against 
one! 

One drinks my ink; the other runs over my paper, 
with the air of a furious young lady, making gestures 
of scorn at my prose. Many grubbing in my thick 
hair make me feel horrible sensations, as though it 
stood on end, while still others tickle the back of my 
neck, trot around on my cuffs, or drink from my 
lachrymal glands, or gorge themselves with my blood. 

But they will not have the last word. Let us light 
a cigarette, burn some fir-cones. Smoke is good for 
something. Back, children of Beelzebub ! 



We must admit that a fly is obstinate. They accuse 
it of being more than obstinate. Permit me — I shall 
not allow that assertion to go unchallenged. The don- 
key uses his legitimate right of defence. Poor burro, 
which everyone joins in abusing, you have finished by 
putting on a cuirass of inertia ! Under the cries, you 
are deaf; under blows, you pretend to be dead. Does 
the stoic not use the same arms when he opposes an 
impassible brow to attempts of fate ? Less stupid than 
those who beat you, you prove, in imitating the great 
souls of other days, that your gray hide is equal to 
their white woolen togas. So have they not also im- 
mortalized you, in tracing their best thoughts on the 
parchment that you give them as a legacy? You give 
service by where you have suffered; the stylet of the 
sage revenges you on the clubs of fools. 



THE VOICE OP NATURE. (59 

Who, then, would compare you with the flies? By 
what measure of inaptness could they put on the same 
line your patience in suffering, and his aggressive ob- 
stinacy, as obstinate as absurd? You do not besiege 
doors closed against you. Your dignity refuses to 
allow you to return to the place from whose threshold 
you were turned away. You go on your road, molest- 
ing no one, asking nothing in this world but peace. 
The fly, on the contrary, troubles that of everyone. 
It suffices to drive it away for it to return livelier than 
ever. His joy is to install himself there where his 
presence will most annoy you. Look at that sleeping 
baby, where it wishes to possess the rosy mouth where 
a drop of milk lies ; that poor sick one, just asleep to- 
ward the morning ! You drive it away from their beds, 
the importunate creature, ten times, a hundred times. 
It does not tire. Unless you kill it you will not con- 
quer, and you would have no right to do that. And 
when at last you do stretch him out, dead, ten more 
come to the funeral. 

Flies would try the patience of angels, if there were 
flies in the kingdom of heaven. While waiting, she 
stings the austere magistrate, whose bald cranium 
serves him as a looking-glass, and as the binocle of 
Belvedere. It unnerves the orator, whose face it fur- 
rows, in more senses than one, at the very moment 
when he is trying hard to retain the attention of a 
sleepy audience, himself occupied to defend himself 
from the flies, or to follow their capricious flight with 
his eyes. 

And who, then, can equal them in impudence? Have 



70 THB VOICE OF NATURE. 

they ever respected anyone or anything? Where is 
the painting, the statue, the vase that is held a sacred 
treasure, human majesty, or the painful wound that 
is safe from their indiscreet attacks? 

The fly has his entry everywhere. It is the symbol 
of certain men, without tact or respect, who make a 
business of touching everything, and install themselves 
in every subject, like a fly on one's nose. 

And yet, when they fall in the water or in my coffee, 
I take them out, and amuse myself in seeing them dry 
their wings in the sun, to dart away, happy to be alive. 

And I look upon them almost like innocent victims 
of dark machinations, when the perfidious spider's web 
catches them in flight. Oh ! when they struggle in the 
cords of the web, where their feet and wings are suc- 
cessively entangled, and the monster is coming to 
drink them alive, I can hold back no longer. I break 
their meshes and set them free. And for a minute, 
while they are cleaning themselves before my eyes, ad- 
justing their wings, brushing their corselets, I forget 
all their mischievous tricks. I see in them but a poor 
captive creature regaining its liberty. Admiring the 
lightness of its movements, the marvelous neatness of 
that toilette, the wonderful structure of its large 
faceted eyes, it is not to Beelzebub that my thoughts 
mount. I say to myself that each of these insects is a 
tissue of marvels, and I remain dreamy. 

There must be behind this world's visible veil an in- 
finite wealth of wisdom hidden. Here is an ephemeral 
being, useless and annoying in our eyes. And yet there 



THE VOICE OF NATURE. 7j_ 

is gathered in his structure a genius so great, that all 
men, reunited, could not create anything like it, or 
even come to understand it. 



SMALL PEOPLE— GREAT EXAMPLES. 

Example is not like a copy-book which we are ex- 
pected to imitate, abandoning us to our own proper 
resources. It is a force which goes from man to man, 
a sort of contagion for good or evil. In that consists 
precisely its prodigious influence. But a man may 
take a contagious disease by the illness o<f a child or an 
animal, and in this case the little and inferior acts on 
the grand and superior. The contagion of example, 
that, too, does not necessarily come from those who 
think themselves at the summit. It may come from 
those who, by a superficial and impertinent convention- 
ality, it has become common to call the lower classes. 

If the heroes and saints, the thinkers and savants, 
have their parts in the direction of the affairs of the 
world, the humble and unknown have theirs also. And 
many times these illustrious geniuses and the vene- 
rated benefactors of humanity have gone to seek their 
inspirations and their thoughts near to the small ones 
of the world. The small have need of the great; the 
great cannot get along without the small. I am in- 
finitely touched by the lessons that God gives us by 
those masters without orders, those professors without 
diplomas, the unknown passers-by. Among others, I 
know two little rag-pickers, who have taught me great 



72 THE VOICE OF NATURE. 

things without ever having spoken to me, nor perhaps 
ever seeing me. I have often met these two compan- 
ions, in the cold mists of morning, at the hour when 
men and things have such a mournful aspect that one 
hesitates to take up one's daily task, and when the 
moral spring seems stiffened and rusty, like the ten- 
dons of a foundered horse. They were already re- 
turning from their work, toward eight o'clock; that 
is to say, in December, just at daybreak, just when 
many others, even among the laborers, scarcely had 
begun their day's toil. Hitched to their cart, which 
they drew with a light step, they mounted toward their 
faubourg, rich with their early findings — papers, rags, 
bones, corks, sardine boxes and old hats. To see them 
pass thus, I do not know what helpful breath of cour- 
age blows over me, penetrates me, and has more effect 
on me than all the exhortations of moralist or philoso- 
pher. Had they not shaken off their desire for sleep, 
and taken up their harness again at four o'clock in the 
morning? Did they not do this every day, and in all 
kinds of weather? And why? To go and gather a 
few scraps of household leavings, or those of factories, 
tatters of papers or stuffs. 

If such obscure rag-pickers, scarcely more than 
children yet, could find in themselves such an energy 
for such a labor, what energy should I not show in has- 
tening to my labor — I, whose function it is to lift the 
fallen, and to gather up those who are being lost in 
human society ! That which I go to seek in the night 
and in the cross-roads and by-paths of life — I, rag- 
picker for God — are human souls, rejected, like debris ; 



THE VOICE OF NATURE. 73 

and the Master., to whom I bring my findings, is the 
merciful Father, before whom there is joy over the re- 
pentant sinner — the afflicted one consoled and the mis- 
erable comforted. Since they have suggested these 
reflections to me, brought this encouragement, I never 
see them pass, these young toilers, without emotion. 
But they gave me, the other day, a pleasure altogether 
particular and like a feast for the soul. It was Ash 
Wednesday. On that day, as after all great holidays, 
there is much to glean in the streets. I saw them, 
therefore, return loaded with packages, sacks full, 
where overflowed or hid the curious merchandise of a 
carnival. But in the middle of the cart, buried in the 
bundles up to her chest, there was seated an old wom- 
an. My little rag-pickers, with the aim of doing more 
work that morning, had brought their old mother with 
them. She had lent them her hand, and in return they 
were giving her a ride home in a carriage. 

The young folks' faces told that they were happy to 
give her a ride and save her old legs. The mother's 
face shone with pride to have children like these, as 
good as they were strong. And I found such examples 
all the greater, because they who set them were among 
the smallest. 



WHAT ARE THEY LOOKING AT? 

On the quay of Bethune, a group of curious persons 
are posted, immovable, with their eyes fixed toward the 
South, 



74 THE VOICE OF NATURE. 

From time to time, one would detach himself from 
the group, and go away, shrugging his shoulders, with 
an air as if he would say, "Bunch of fools." But others 
approached, lifting their heads and looking toward the 
same point of the sky as those ahead of them. 

What can they see at that side? That is what I 
asked myself. 

He who has never idled, himself, nor has seen block- 
heads stopped before no matter what, will be surprised 
at my question. 

The best way to obtain an answer is to go and see. 
I go there, then. Like the others, I lifted my head and 
let my eyes wander around the sky between the dome 
of the Pantheon and that of the Salpetriere. But how- 
ever hard or whichever way I looked, I saw nothing, 
absolutely nothing. 

I questioned the companions who were around me, 
with wide-open eyes : 

"Why are you here, and what do you see?" 

"We came because we saw others looking. We are 
doing the same, but have seen nothing." 

I made the tour of the assemblage with my ques- 
tions. No one had seen anything. Strange, strange! 

After several minutes of sustained and fruitless 
watching, I, in turn, withdrew from the crowd, to 
which new recruits ceaselessly joined. But I was greatly 
puzzled to find the primary cause of all that attention. 

These people, I said to myself, are not crazy, for I 
am not crazy myself; and yet I, like them, looked an 
instant, without seeing anything, or knowing why I 
looked. 



THE VOICE OF NATURE. 75 

Had we all been the victim of a joke ? Those things 
happen. It would not be the first time that a wicked 
joker had taken advantage of the ingenuousness of 
the public. 

One man stops in the busy streets and, apparently 
without motive, pretends to look at one place. A 
circle of spectators gather quickly around him. But 
he must be clever to fool the public thus. Generally 
he does not allow himself to be caught, and if he does 
get caught, he finds it out quickly. I do not know 
what there was serious and persevering in the phe- 
nomenon that made me think it had some authentic 
cause. Not one of the group of idlers in this crowd 
having been able to give me an explanation, I deter- 
mined to address myself to the inhabitants of the quay. 
After a series of unfortunate attempts, I saw a fish- 
seller under the arch of a door, who recompensed my 
zeal. 

"Why are they there, my good sir?" 

"I will tell you. About an hour ago a balloon dis- 
appeared in that direction, and ever since there is a 
crowd to look." 

I was at last satisfied. A fact had passed in that 
place. A balloon had appeared to the sight of these 
people, then had sailed away toward the south. Once 
the real ocular witnesses of this had gone, those who 
followed them continued to look in imitation, but with- 
out knowing what it was all about. 

How many analogous phenomena in the history of 
men! Never make fun of those who stand there, the 
eyes lost in some corner of the sky, where you see noth- 



76 THE VOICE OF NATURE. 

ing. Above all, do not believe in an imposture lightly. 
Since the attention of humanity is obstinately fixed on 
some point, be sure that something real and great has 
passed that way. With a little patience and serious 
thought you can convince yourself of it. 



ON THE DEATH OF THE FLOWERS. 

With hurried steps, a commissionaire hastened 
away, carrying, pell-mell, gathered between his arms, 
hung over his shoulders, a half dozen baskets of flow- 
ers, jardinieres full, and all lamentably faded. 

On the naked carcases of the great willow arches, the 
bows of ribbon hung, giving the effect of laces on skele- 
tons. The opulent flowering of these overflowing 
bouquets was reduced to a few blades, where the dead 
leaves and the corollaries of a dirty yellow trembled. 
Of the uncrowned daisies there remained but the hard 
hearts; the roses, after the fall of their petals, were 
nothing but frightful buds on their thorny stems. Two 
lilies, graceful still, bent their heads sadly, seeming to 
weep over all this desolation. The man, dragging his 
load, seized them brutally, like something entirely 
valueless and of which he must get rid. 

But, on the passage of these flowers, it was curious 
to observe the faces of the observers. They stopped, 
turned, following him with their regard, as they follow 



THE VOICE OP NATURE. <JJ 

funeral processions. A respectful pity betrayed itself 
in their eyes and in the attitudes of the most of them, 
and their thoughts could be imagined : "Poor flow- 
ers, withered and dead; and how that clown shakes 
them, and carries them ungallantly to their grave." 
Some, rare, though, shrugged their shoulders, as do 
certain people seeing an infirm person pass by. 
Thoughtless gamins made comical gestures. A fat 
coachman, camped like a bronze statue on the edge of 
the sidewalk, turned his face, so jolly and rosy, on 
these remains — more rosy and flourishing in contrast 
to so much withered slenderness. It appeared to give 
him something to reflect upon. 

Altogether, these flowers made a picture and created 
a sensation. Poor debris of some fete, a birthday, a 
betrothal, they awoke the idea of our fragile lives, ex- 
citing, above all, tenderness and compassion. It is 
worth the trouble to compare the departure of the 
flowers with their arrival. When they come, fresh and 
bright, like pretty young girls dressed for a ball, those 
who bring them are in their glory. Proud of their load 
and the admiration which it excites, they have the air 
of carrying a holy sacrament. On their road children's 
hands are extended : "Oh, what beautiful flowers ; give 
me one !" Women open their eyes and dream of the 
happy mortal toward whom these flowering homages 
are sent. It is a continual rumor of voices, of exclama- 
tions and remarks. And these remarks are not al- 
ways kindly ; above all, if the baskets are rich and the 
bouquets extra fine. Their luxury then awakens envy : 
"What luck to be able to afford such beautiful things." 



?§ THE VOICE OF NATURE. 

The positive people are set on edge: "They must be 
stupid to spend so much money on such follies." 
Others, and not always wrongly, murmur: "Ah, 
these well-fed and selfish bourgeois ; they allow them- 
selves such fancies, while the poor are starving." 

So the least pretext suffices to reveal the hearts of 
men, and to drive each one to manifest what is in him. 
It is not needed that an illustrious citizen should be 
buried, or that one of the great people of the earth 
should pass with his funeral escort. A flower brought 
or taken away suffices, and the eternal question of our 
destiny, the passions of the day, the holy pities, like the 
great angers and the base jealousies, are there, all 
ready to agitate themselves on its passage. 



AN ACT OF JUSTICE. 

The slowness of justice causes the despair of up- 
right consciences, eager for clear situations and equita- 
ble retributions. But when, by exception, the chastise- 
ment follows the crime, striking just, and striking 
quick, it is a comfort and a satisfaction. With the 
aim of procuring for himself these comforting impres- 
sions, it is not rare that man intervenes in the causes. 
He hastens the solutions, precipitates the denouements, 
realizes summary justice, little allied to justice of the 
law. I have just now found another example in anima 



THE VOICE OF NATURE. 79 

vili. One can say that doubly, since it relates to an old 
horse on the way to the slaughter-house. 

We are, one Wednesday afternoon, at the Boule- 
vard of the Hospital. On the dome of the Salpetriere 
the clock marks three. It is the hour when the horse 
market, established in this neighborhood, was about 
to close. By the gate of the immense grounds the 
horses came out, horses of all sizes and values. Hand- 
some teams, with glistening hair, and heads held high 
in air. Big Percherons, with heavy, measured steps, 
able to draw a truck or a tumbril, and ponies, the de- 
light of childhood. The higher the price of the horse, 
the better he is cared for, and the cleaner and more 
careful the jockey. His cares, also, are measured by 
the value of the merchandise. 

But now come the poor old horses. In their turn 
they come from the market. But, instead of going to- 
ward the city like the others, they turn to the right, 
and begin to mount the steep side of the Boulevard. 

The temporary grooms led them. It was the last 
lap. Above they will make a half turn, and they will 
enter the slaughter-house. 

This defile of poor limping hacks on the way to their 
death was a melancholy sight. Their thin skins were 
pierced by many holes, and scarcely hid the bones. 
Their legs were knotty and twisted, like the roots of 
an oak. As payment for their existence of labor they 
are to receive a thrust of a knife. Poor old carcans, 
I follow, with my eyes, along the Calvary that you are 
climbing, and I see your cruppers bend beneath their 
load. Without doubt you bear your part of inevitable 



gQ THE VOICE OP NATURE. 

pains ; but how much they are aggravated by the ini- 
quity of men! So it is not rare to see this supreme 
voyage accompanied by blows of a cudgeL There is 
no need of being kind to this equine clientele. They 
could bang on them with impunity. 

We were there, standing on the sidewalk, watching 
this lamentable cortege pass, when a revolting scene 
took place. 

A young groom, finding that his horse did not go 
fast enough, began to beat him furiously. He beat him 
over the head, his eyes and nose, all the time holding 
the horse by the bridle. When his arms tired he be- 
gan a series of kicks in the stomach and flanks. The 
poor horse, completely crazed, tried to rear and fell on 
the pavement. The spectators were indignant. One 
workman stepped out from the group and began to 
make observations to the wretch, who did not receive 
them well. The affair grew warm. Soon we saw the 
fist of the workman lift and give the groom a majestic 
blow. 

From the sidewalk a bravo saluted the avenger. 
But that made the avenger lose his measure. En- 
couraged by the consent of the gallery, he fell upon 
his antagonist with his fists. A guardian of the peace 
intervened, and took both men to the station-house. 
The avenger made me a sign to follow, and I did. As 
a witness before the commissioner, I gave an impartial 
account of the affair. I learned afterward that the 
case was dismissed. 

But things followed it. For the groom there was 
a very black eye, and for you, readers, this story. 



THE VOICE OF NATURE. gl 

This trouble was caused by the role of instant justice. 
There is no grander one, but it is terribly difficult. 

When the first avenging blow fell upon the head of 
this wretch, enraged against this poor dying brute, 
it was like a flash of lightning of manifest justice. The 
cry of approbation which it drew from us was legiti- 
mate. And yet this cry had brought such an excess 
in the repression, that the victim of it became almost 
interesting, and the avenger appeared to be the human 
brute. We had awakened this brute by our applause. 
The intention was just, the result awful. A fate com- 
mon enough of human actions. And before the ques- 
tion, whether to let them continue, or intervene, in 
such a case, we would remain in a terrible indecision, if 
we have not the inward light for guide. It is for that 
to teach us. It will say : " When you abstain, distrust 
your softness ; if you interfere, it is of your ardor that 
you must be on your guard." 



A CAT IN THE WATER. 

Two hundred persons were leaning on their elbows 
against the parapets of the little branch of the Seine, 
running between Notre Dame de Paris and the re- 
mains of the old Hotel Dieu. New curiosity seekers 
gathered incessantly. They raised themselves on their 
toes and looked over the shoulders of the earlier ar- 



82 THE VOICE OF NATURE. 

rivals. To see them from afar, they seemed like peo- 
ple completely fascinated by a powerful drama — a 
suicide, perhaps,. or a stirring rescue. 

Not to lose anything of such a spectacle, passengers 
got down from omnibuses, and the small merchants 
quitted their booths and crossed the quay. 

Now, what was happening? A cat in the water. 
Yes, a gray and white kitten, and about half grown. 
The poor little thing had a string around its neck. 
But the stone, which doubtless had been fastened to it, 
had become loosened, and the animal, emerging from 
the bottom, a part of whose viscous mud was to be 
seen on its face, swam, struggled and tried to escape 
the waters. 

By great misfortune there are high walls all along 
the banks, worn smooth by the water, and offering no 
foothold, even for the paws of a cat. When it had 
vainly sought, on one side of the banks, a place where 
he could hoist himself out of the water, the swimmer, 
at bay, turned to the other side, painfully traversed the 
canal, and at the end of these infructuous efforts en- 
countered the same obstacles. 

Now he catches on some small projection of the stone 
and succeeds in pulling himself up half out of the 
water. But he cannot maintain himself there, and at 
the end of a minute he has fallen back, entirely sub- 
merged. 

Returning to the surface, he recommenced his strug- 
gle, but with a slower movement. From time to time 
he gave a pitiful little cry, that we saw more than 
heard, lifting supplicating eyes toward the spectators 



THE VOICE OF NATURE. gg 

above. They, more and more captivated as the scene 
was prolonged, took the part of the dying creature, 
which defended itself with such an obstinate hope. 
When it seemed to reanimate itself, a murmur of satis- 
faction traversed the gallery; if it appeared weaker, 
there was a mournful silence. Each one, in reality, 
seemed to have, in a measure, identified himself with 
the fate of this life in distress, whose safety or de- 
struction would be for all a good or bad omen. 

Suddenly, a- young boy appeared, one of those whom 
we meet everywhere where there is anything going 
on. Scarcely had he understood what it was all about, 
than four by four he bounded down the steps toward 
the landing. By a prodigy of cleverness he managed 
to let himself down within a short distance of the 
water by means of one of those large iron rings where 
the boats tie up. He held to this by one leg, and 
balancing out into the empty air, he threw to the little 
swimmer the end of his woolen scarf. 

The cat, on the point of going down forever, gath- 
ered its last strength and caught its claws in the sav- 
ing scarf. In an instant, like a fish on a hook, he was 
thrown up on the bank, where the boy rejoined him in 
a moment. 

Then a thunder of bravos burst out all along the 
parapet, and the lad, red with emotion, ran away with 
the conquest he had made from death itself in his arms. 

O, mysterious power of life ! We may disown you, 
and walk with a brutal step on your marvels. We even 
may, when delivered over to perverse impulses, find a 
pleasure, at certain moments, in destruction; but an 



84 THE VOICE OF NATURE. 

hour comes when, by that very thing that the drama 
of life and death unfolds, poignant, before us, it is for 
life that we wish evil to all its enemies. A busy crowd 
suspends its action, misses appointments, neglects its 
business, and becomes enthusiastic in favor of a cat 
that does not wish to die. And the mocking boy, who 
usually breaks windows, torments animals and laughs 
at the authorities, becomes the savior of the creature, 
at the risk of his own life. 

Let us recognize in this the influence of the Sove- 
reign Will, having willed that life should be sacred 
to all creatures, and which manifests in the best of 
men the sublime instinct of self-devotion, and in try- 
ing to save that which is lost. 



THOSE TO WHOM WE LISTEN. 

In class, it is the masters who instruct the children. 
Between the classes life offers them lessons. There 
are anonymous and impersonal ones. All the views 
of fields and woods speak to the child. 

But it happens, also, that there are on the road of 
the scholar escaped from school, real teachers, whose 
intervention sometimes marks a life. The more popu- 
lous the centers, the more numerous are these teachers. 
It is difficult to escape them, and they are far from 
being of the best quality. 



THE VOICE OF NATURE. 85 

I have just seen a lesson of this kind, which bore its 
fruit on the spot. You shall see how. 

It is Thursday. On the edge of the quay Henri IV., 
the whole length of a port encumbered with boats, a 
troop of scholars are amusing themselves among the 
merchandise being discharged. They hustled each 
other on the planks, climbed mountains of bundles to 
let themselves come rolling down like casks. They 
halloed into the bungholes of empty hogsheads to hear 
the echo. Some of them tried to read the tickets on 
the different cases whose contents puzzled them. In 
passing they teased horses or donkeys, played tricks on 
the boatmen, or jumped into the small boats which 
balance behind the pinnaces. From time to time, a 
Custom House employe appears. Then the boys dis- 
appear like rabbits in their burrows. But as soon as 
he is gone they reappear, finding their heart's delight 
in touching everything, annoying everybody, until 
some stevedore, black with coal dust, apostrophizes 
themiin his hoarse voice with a club in his hand. The 
boys disappear again like sparrows. A minute later 
they are elsewhere, always gay, always ready to re- 
commence their tricks. 

They now pass near a storage place for hogsheads, 
which were stood closely around the place. There was 
no etiquette. "What is inside of them ? It cannot be 
wine. The heads are of white wood. But here is 
one where the bottom is broken a little. What if we 
took hold of the stave and pulled a little? Come on, 
hard. ,, 



§(J THE VOICE OF NATURE. 

It cracks under their efforts, and big chunks of resin 
fall to the ground. 

At the same minute one of the boys takes a large 
piece and hides it in his blouse. 

''Leave that!" cry the others. "That does not be- 
long to you." 

"Bah! they put it on wood. I will melt it and fix 
kindlings for my mother to light the fire." 

And they start away. A workman has seen them. 
He stops them, and lays hold of the little delinquent, 
and says : 

"You will put back what you took, and quick, too." 

The child was about to do so, when a ragged man, 
one of those who sleep on the bridges and wash their 
only shirt in the Seine, on bright days, and dry it in 
the sun, intervened. He understood what had hap- 
pened. 

"Don't listen to him," he said to the boy, now ready 
to bring back the resin. "You would be very stupid 
not to keep it. What we find we keep. There remains 
enough more." 

Then, turning to the other children, he said to 
them : 

"Don't hesitate. Why should you? Go ahead. I 
give you permission, and you, big boobies, you are not 
going to hinder young folks from amusing themselves." 

Upon that, three-quarters of the boys rolled onto the 
disemboweled hogshead, filled their pockets and their 
aprons, and disappeared like a flock of freebooters has- 
tening to put their booty in a safe place. 

And the tatterdemalion went his way, his hands in 



THE VOICE OF NATURE. §7 

his pockets, with an air of saying, "I have not lost my 
day." 

We must not take the misdeeds of children too seri- 
ously. Their natural turbulence draws them on. They 
are often better than their actions. Still, I went from 
there, thoughtful, perplexed, having once more learned, 
in the presence of both good and evil counsel, which are 
the ones listened to. 



MOVING. 

The October term has passed. One can breathe 
until January, now. Suppose we talk a little about 
moving. 

People never moved so much as now. The country 
moves to town; the town to the country, the beaches 
and the mountains. 

In our great centers the population is the prey of 
perpetual motion. On certain days the migration is so 
great that it impedes circulation. It seems that all the 
furniture of the inhabitants is in the street. 

Get up a directory with the addresses of people of 
all situations. At the end of two or three years, if you 
would keep informed, it would be so full of erasures 
and additions that you would have to copy it all off. 

Civilians move less often than the military; the 
bourgeois less often than the laborer. The record of 
these movings belongs to the functionaries, and among 



88 THE VOICE OF NATURE. 

them the frequency of the displacements seems to be 
the cause of the importance of the functions. Across 
the summits of hierarchy, as on the high mountain 
ridges, tempests blow, and are perpetual menaces for 
the great personages. A rural letter-carrier, or a 
forester, is surer of his to-morrows than a judge or a 
minister. 

If we are movers, in the proper sense of the word, 
we are so, still more, in a figurative sense. Here I 
think, not of our changeable humor, nor that feverish 
agitation which makes us think sometimes that all the 
world is crazy — mentality gracefully defined by the in- 
dulgent euphemism, "he is moving." But I think 
more of the profound changes which have taken place 
in our spiritual dwelling. The ancient secular shelter 
for souls, and the secular shelters of human thought, 
have undergone such modifications that we do not 
know them any* more. In spirit, above all, it becomes 
rare to have a paternal house, to live and die in the 
ideas and beliefs of one's forefathers. Nothing is any 
longer in its place. Man has moved his ideas, his 
mysteries, his dogmas, his heroes, and even his divini- 
ties. He had loaded his holdings of faith and hope on 
these provisional vehicles, and he drives all that be- 
neath the great sky, anxious to find another country. 
Perhaps humanity has never felt in a more melancholy 
fashion the truth of these antique words : "We are 
but pilgrims on this earth ; we have here no permanent 
city." 

When will it be given us to enter in a hostelry where 
they lodge more than a night, to raise our tents, to 



THE VOICE OP NATURE. §9 

build our house, to repose ourselves at last for a dur- 
able time in a real country of soul ? God alone knows. 
But perhaps this time is less distant than we dare 
suppose. 

While waiting, in the way of moving I saw some- 
thing most unreasonable. 

On one of the exterior boulevards I saw, riding 
along, upright, balanced between four wheels of a 
wagon, a large tree with all its branches. On the tree 
was a nest, and around this nest two little birds flew, 
screaming. 

So this nest, symbol of peace and security, this gra- 
cious image of inviolate hiding-places, is not even shel- 
tered from movings. They transport it, with the tree 
where it was hung, with the earth, even, around which 
the tree had fixed its roots. 

Was not 'that the overflowing of the measure of 
moving-days ? 



TO BETTER ONESELF. 

What will not one do to better oneself? It is hu- 
man to aspire to more comfort, and to seek means of 
ameliorating one's position; and when at times, when 
things go badly, should we be surprised to hear the 
cry, "Suppose we change"? The sick one turns in his 
bed. The tenant, angry with his miserly landlord and 
irritating concierge, says angrily, "Let us move." 



90 THE VOICE OF NATURE. 

Tired of being robbed on the shores of the blue sea, 
the tourist takes refuge in the hotels of Switzerland. 

To better themselves women change servants, and 
servants change mistresses ; functionaries change their 
posts; the Chambers, the ministry; the electors, the 
deputy ; the people, the government. 

Are they really any better after it all? Will they 
not find the same old inconveniences under a new 
form ? It is possible. But they will have had the hope 
of being better, even if in the end they are worse off. 
I have seen families leave rue Quincampoix on account 
of bad air, and install themselves in rue Maubee "to 
better themselves." It was to change the microbes, 
and that was all. But I understand these absurd ac- 
tions, having done the same things myself. I never 
could resist the desire to change to the other sidewalk 
when in the mornings the housewives shake the dust 
out on the passers' heads. But how often, however, 
while trying to avoid the dust of a rag shaken every 
day, I went and threw myself beneath a rug that they 
beat only every six months ! But that does not matter ; 
I shall change the sidewalk every time. It is a solace to 
change ; to change occupies one, distracts the mind, and 
procures for it a little illusion. Is it not at least that 
much ? 



People change, also, through enervation. As soon as 
a thing lasts there are some who feel uneasy. That 
Aristides was called 'The Just" for a time was bearable. 



THE VOICE OF NATURE. 91 

But if it continues too long they begin to cry "Enough !" 
and the story of change is repeated. They calumniate 
Aristides, they accuse him and they condemn him. 
Why, then, was he called "The Just"? Is there any- 
thing so monotonous as length ? What indecency, and 
impertinence besides, towards those who are not just ! 
Happiness itself, when it lasts, incites change. A 
series of uniformly happy days is wearying, do you 
know? It is comparable to a dead calm. Save your- 
self from being becalmed. A little storm, if you please. 
Invent something which will set folks in a fury. We 
find it irksome here — let us start a revolution. 



For many unhappiness consists in being obliged to 
remain in one place. They are afraid of taking root. 
A fever agitates them and drives them from, place to 
place. They are always buckling their trunks. Thus 
they can never seem to stop at any definitive determi- 
nation. To-day a resolution is taken; they burn their 
vessels. So it is irrevocable. Know your world better. 
At the precise instant when everything is fully de- 
cided a change has taken place in their minds. The 
very fact that they have said ne varietur makes them 
believe that they have sacrificed their liberty. Here- 
after they will sigh for other things, such as the for- 
bidden fruit or the lost paradise. 

But, beneath this perpetual movement, this surface 
change, one thing germinates, grows and becomes in- 
destructible, and that is routine. These changeable 



92 THE VOICE OF NATURE. 

men are the most untractable slaves of habit. The peo- 
ple of unstable and versatile temperaments are most 
given to routine. "The more it changes, the more it is 
the same thing." No proverb is truer than that. The 
history of nations resembles the oscillations of a swing. 
It is the perpetual movement, joined to an invariable 
tick-tack. 

To-day it is the tyranny from above, to-morrow from 
below. All that is called change, but is not in reality. 
The wheel turns, but keeps its place. 

The troops of the figurantes in a theatre go out by 
one door and return by another. The superficial ob- 
server does not perceive it. He has the illusion of an 
immense motley crowd, of an inexhaustible multitude. 
He who knows the lines knows very well that these 
archers, halberdiers, arquebusiers, cavaliers and tutti 
quanti have but to change their costumes in the wings. 
He will tell you, pointing to such or such a one, a valet, 
that he was a chevalier just now, and -indicating a 
monk as the brigand of the second act. Alas ! one does 
not need to be a great physiognomist to recognize in 
this file of historical characters, under their different 
costumes, the same individuals, red or white, imperial- 
ists or Jacobins, planters of the tree of liberty or sinis- 
ter wood-cutters who cut it down to make wood to 
warm the feet of Caesars. One does not need to be a 
great prophet to say, regarding the scene of to-day, 
what it will be to-morrow, or the day after. It is marked 
out like music-paper, like the bill of fare of encrusted 
housekeepers. We are not any further advanced. That 
is what we should say. Then we would no longer see 



THE VOICE OF NATURE. 90 

passionate crowds, nourished with illusions, turning 
around ceaselessly in the same circuit, drawn by decep- 
tive promises, and imagining that the earth is going to 
be transfigured because the comedians have changed 
their costumes. 

One only change becomes important, that which 
bears on the inward man. No one wishes to know any- 
thing of that. And yet it is there that we should begin 
"to better ourselves." 



WHAT IS GOING TO HAPPEN. 

It is very grave. It is the question of the existence 
of several families — of sparrows. 

In the country these birds are considered as enemies, 
because they love to pick at the ripened wheat-heads. 
They forget that in the spring they live on cater- 
pillars and- beetles. In cities there is no harvest to 
spoil: the sparrow is the friend of everybody. For 
me, I am grateful that he is there and remains even 
during the winter. We have, it is true, rooks, pigeons 
and numbers of blackbirds with yellow beaks. But 
they are the guests of the public gardens, old towers or 
some green corner. There are only enough of these 
for the privileged ones. The sparrow is universal. He 
inhabits all quarters without distinction. He is found 
in barracks, in schools, convents and prisons. He sings 
under the windows of the poor, enlivens the doughty 



94 THE VOICE OF NATURE. 

heads of schools, and jumps in the fine sand of the 
private parks of the aristocrats. At the Louvre he 
nests in the sleeves of the great ones or the casques of 
the warriors; at Notre Dame, in the beards of the 
saints. 

He has no haughty pride, nor prejudices, nor vain 
fears. The shadow pleases him, doubtless, since he 
lives under the bridges. Sun and heat do not discom- 
mode him, for the straw of his nest festoons the Eiffel 
tower. They reproach him and accuse him of having 
unscrupulously driven the swallows from their nests 
with his sharp beak. That is true and is deplorable. 
It is to be regretted that the sparrow is something of a 
brigand. « But, without doubt, that is the fault of a few 
individuals. It would be unjust to accuse the whole 
race. Are there not bad and good people everywhere ? 
Even among the kings of the earth ? And I continue 
to love the sparrows for their courage, their humor for 
unravelling things, their communicative optimism. 

Judge whether I can remain uninterested in their 
fate or remain indifferent to that which threatens them. 
Now I see sinister events foreshadowed without power 
to check them nor to notify those most interested. 

There against my house misery is organizing. Fatal- 
ity is on the march. Between two high buildings there 
is a vacant lot, having, however, an old coach house 
thereon. From the first floor upward the cracked 
gables here and there offered commodious lodgings for 
the sparrows. A whole republic was installed there. 
From early morning to sunset the air vibrated with 
their happy cries. The little ones squealed in the holes 



THE VOICE OF NATURE. 95 

and the old ones fought on the roofs. They never 
stopped bringing from everywhere straws, feathers, 
hairs to build their nests and food to appease the 
hunger of their little ones. They lived, prospered and 
furnished a warm picture of the joy of living. 

And to say that all that is to end badly ! 

My neighbor, the grocer, has torn down the old out- 
buildings, and put the ground in the charge of a lot of 
demolishers. A large house is to be built there as high 
as its two neighbors. The picks work furiously, the 
wagons are filled rapidly, the horses pull, and the cart- 
men swear and snap their whips. Soon the cellar will 
be dug. Then the masons will come. Walls will rise 
from the ground, grow high and wide. And the spar- 
rows, what will become of them? What will become 
of the little ones without feathers or wings? The 
stones and mortar will cover all the holes. Enmured 
alive, legions of poor little birds will be asphyxiated, or 
die of hunger, and the old ones, after a few cries of dis- 
tress, a few anxious turns around the old nests, will 
disperse to the four corners of the city. 

I see these things coming. And, while this night- 
mare possesses me, the sparrows continue to fly about 
and sing. Nothing seems to tell them. What do they 
care for the men tearing down the sheds by the coach 
house, covered with mud and digging that great hole, 
the horses urged along, all that passes down there on 
the surface of the earth? Are they not in the sun, on 
the roofs, in the serenity of the high regions, with 
wings to escape with ? 

This contrast hurts me: this carelessness of press- 



96 THE VOICE OF NATURE. 

ing danger, this overflowing life, and down there the 
inexorable fatality which is approaching to crush them. 
All that about the city of the birds made me think of 
that of men. I think of unexpected events which come 
to us here below, to those which are maturing here 
under our very eyes and which we do not see. I 
think of Cassandra, of believers whom the light of pre- 
sentiment tortures, without their being able to find be- 
lievers, at a very distant horizon charged with sombre 
storms. 

But perhaps I see things too darkly ; above all, in the 
present case. If my grocer is not in too much of a 
hurry, if the contractor drags his work a little, if bad 
weather interferes and the building progresses slowly, 
the wings of my baby birds will have had time to grow. 
Frightened by the cries of the masons and the strange 
appearance of the scaffolding, they will hasten to emi- 
grate, and their carelessness will be nearer right than 
my anxiety. I would gladly be deceived. 



THE TERRACE BUILDER'S BREAKFAST. 

At the noon hour I like to watch the workmen eat in 
front of the restaurants. The simplest offer the great- 
est interest. Particularly touching are those little bits 



THE VOICE OP NATURE. 97 

of barracks where they sell soup for two sous. Well 
made, this is a feast. Served in always very clean 
bowls, it is eaten in the open air, on a small bench, or 
standing if that is full. When I see the worker thus 
taking his modest repast I make in silence all sorts of 
good wishes, to the end that that may be to his benefit, 
and the prayer of Christ rings in my memory, "Give 
us this day our daily bread." 

But infinitely more curious is it to observe the hus- 
band's meal brought by his wife, and eaten together on 
some improvised seat, or some bench by the road. The 
omnibus drivers, masons, terrace builders and pavers 
are the ones who make this meal together. 

By the manner in which these couples eat their soup 
together I can perceive more or less of the tenderness 
or indifference of their union. 

From my window, for several days now, exactly at 
eleven o'clock in the morning, I see a young woman 
come, very neatly dressed, and with a gentle and pleas- 
ant face. She brings her husband his noon-day break- 
fast, a worker on the terrace. As soon as she arrives, 
he comes out of the cellar which he is digging with 
some twenty others. He wipes his forehead and then 
they sit down beside each other, with one only napkin 
for both. It is also a tablecloth, and their knees serve 
for a table. The service consists of two blue bowls and 
two plates. The young couple have good appetites. 
But the woman interrupts her dinner to watch her hus- 
band eat. One can see that she is happy to see him 
restore his strength thus, and to know that the repast 
pleases him. And he from time to time gives her a 



98 THE VOICE OP NATURE. 

glance as though to thank her for the care she has 
taken of his comfort. In one corner of the little basket 
is hidden a surprise opened for the dessert only. When 
they have finished they talk of their affairs. Some- 
times this appears to be grave, and at other times gay, 
for I see them laugh from my balcony. But the hour 
for work rings, the man takes up his pick again, and 
the woman takes her way home, but before she goes 
they embrace. 

The sight of this peaceful repast charms me. I could 
look at them thus without ever growing weary. Othess 
also look at them, the bourgeois who pass by. How 
many of them are there who have such cordial relations 
at their dinners ? And, besides, the companions seated 
here and there with a piece of bread and cheese or meat 
from the charcuterie. They, too, would like a warm 
meal if someone were to offer it. But they have no one 
to care for their meals. Their wife is dead, ill, or lives 
too far away. Alas, often, too, she is too lazy, or her 
children need her attention, or her husband's noon meal 
does not interest her. How one wishes for a good 
warm meal for each served by such loving hands ! That 
would cut the labor of the day agreeably and give cour- 
age to continue. Solitary bread is bitter. To eat it 
long, the eater risks going to console himself with blue 
wine. Do not throw the stone at him. Pity him rather. 
But, like his fate where shadow holds too much place, 
it makes them appreciate still more this young couple 
where there is such love. With all my heart I wish that 
love will endure, and I would see the example propa- 
gated. 



THE VOICE OP NATURE. 99 



HABIT. 

When one enters the dormitory of a military caserne 
in the morning one is fairly strangled by an unbreath- 
able and suffocating atmosphere. But those who sleep 
in*the place do not perceive it. They sleep peacefully, 
and doubtless would scold the importunate visitor who 
would open the windows to let in a little pure air. We 
live like this often, in a morally vitiated atmosphere, 
without knowing it, ready to cry when a less impure 
breath touches our heads, "Quick, shut the window, 
there is a draught,." One can accustom oneself to 
everything, even miasma. Once accustomed, they ask 
but to remain there. I wish to represent in a topical 
example the tranquillity of mind which gives birth to 
long routines and where men are asleep rocked by the 
statu quo. 

If there is a dog's trade it is that of sheriff. It seems 
that it must keep a man continually out of breath. To 
carry it on daily supposes an inexhaustible stock of 
impudence, of hardness, a headsman's heart, in fact. 
So the sheriff is in general a man much feared. They 
avoid his approach, and his name holds nothing sympa- 
thetic. He is represented as a misanthrope without 
bowels of compassion, happy over the misery that he 
inflicts. It may be that some certain ones do answer to 
this sad model. But they are the exception. The others 
are like the rest of the world : they do their duty as the 
harvesters make their harvest, as the bee gathers its 
booty, without thinking more of the evil they do than 

LofC. 



100 THE VOICE OP NATURE. 

does the knife of the guillotine which cuts off heads. 
This trade is often handed down from father to son. 
They exercise it with a filial piety. There are even 
sheriffs who have some heart and furnish proofs of it 
outside their service. In fact, one is not more surprised 
or hampered by being sheriff than by being doctor, 
teacher, soldier or forester. 

Do you wish a proof? I know a sheriff who is far 
from having the appearance of one. Rosy, with a fresh 
color, light curling hair, he has the appearance of one 
bringing good news. Willingly we would choose him 
to transmit messages which should rejoice people's 
hearts. His physiognomy has I know not what of hap- 
piness, announcing that something is about to happen 
which each one would congratulate him on. It was a 
head dreamed of to give toasts at christenings of first- 
borns, and at weddings where the couple married for 
love, or after a dinner of stock-holders who had just 
received their big dividends. 

Still he is sheriff, without any mistake. He works 
hard even at his business. I should be telling a false- 
hood if I said that he had ever regretted certain acts 
having an evident character of infamy, which he had 
accomplished in the name of the law, such as to notify 
unfortunate tenants, widows, orphans and sick people 
that they must quit the place in twenty-four hours. He 
followed his trade — everybody must live. 

The other evening the sun was near the horizon. It 
was the hour when chickens go to roost, when sheriffs 
cease to serve papers, I saw him seated in the imperial 
of an omnibus. He held a great bundle of papers in 



THE VOICE OP NATURE. 101 

both arms, and with his head leaning backward a little 
he slept. The petrel sleeps on the storm, and he slept on 
his exploits. 

He had the innocent air of a child asleep. 

And yet, in the flanks of that bundle, swollen like the 
body of a reptile, were significations, constatations, 
commandments, summonses, seizures, assignments, op- 
positions, protests, evictions, orders for arrest and other 
horrors of the same class, the wherewith to cause tears 
to flow and excite despair. What a cushion, my friend, 
to sleep on ! The man of law cared little for that. 

I thought that quietude extraordinary, but I was very 
innocent. 

What this man did there we all do under the power- 
ful and insensible empire of routine. We all sleep 
peacefully on some heap of injustice. We no longer 
see them, they are accomplished with so much regu- 
larity. Miseries elbow us, ignominies surround us, old 
lies hem us in and asphyxiate us. Who, then, notices it 
or worries about it ? A few beings considered as fools, 
with exalted ideas, those who would hinder round 
dances. Others drink iniquity like water. It would be 
easier to awaken the dead than to get a hearing from 
these benumbed consciences. 

A thick gangue slowly gathers by long practice, 
gathers over our intelligences and our hearts. That 
which has lasted a long time ends by seeming necessary 
and just, a little sacred even. You are forbidden to 
touch it. Oh, the terrible force of inertia ! the incurable 
blindness resulting from accepted customs, of current 
manners, of all that makes a man limp along behind the 



102 THH VOICE OF NATURE. 

others without frowning and believing himself not re- 
sponsible for his actions ! Voices call him, but he does 
not hear ; he is no longer capable of judging. 

The ferocity of the malefactors of this profession is 
nothing in comparison with the unconscious cruelty of 
the amateurs of the statu quo, to the frightful calm of 
the victims of routine, of all centers and all beliefs. 
For the malefactor is an exception whom one could 
overcome. The men of routine are legion ; on the con- 
trary they are the majority, the rule, and if these mon- 
sters predominate, they earn for themselves the titles of 
good people. 



QUESTIONS OF AGE. 

Under the obsession of the knowledge of his fragil- 
ity, man willingly admires that which is lasting. It 
seems to him that this durability constitutes a proof of 
quality. Without further verifying this judgment the 
mass accept it. A fiction in form only, it is in reality 
a matter of routine and a sheep-like following of animal 
habits by temperament. That which has lasted long 
seems to him to be legitimate. Let the innovator be- 
ware. The crowd looks at him as the great-eyed cow 
in the Alpine pasturages looks at the passers, but she 
does not follow them. 

This innovation asks novelties, needs distraction, a 
capricious instinct, a puerile curiosity. Do not the 



THE VOICE OF NATURE. 103 

children do the same ? ' That does not hinder them from 
being a little crazy, slaves to their petty habits. To 
these who thirst for novelty, change the place of their 
beds, their plates, and they will supplicate you to put 
them back in the place where they have always seen 
them. 

Get along! These ancient things have always been 
the trumps in their game. A secret inclination holds us 
within their lines. So do old nurses keep a tyrannical 
empire over their nurslings, even after they have be- 
come men. 

"That is absurd !" you will say, if you are of this 
corporation of hard-heads. Absurd often, yes; and 
profoundly sorrowful. To see the world prefer old 
errors to young truths, old iniquities to the new birth 
of justice, the old slaveries to the hopeful liberty of to- 
day, is discouraging. But, at the bottom of so much 
incoherence, lies a grain of logic. Durability, in the 
eyes of these men, is the sister of eternity. The longer 
a thing has lasted, the greater proof it has seemed to 
give of positive value, and in fact there is some truth 
in that appreciation. "House founded one hundred 
years ago" is a recommendation for a social reason. 
"Principle recognized from the greatest antiquity" is 
a title of nobility in the domain of ideas. Let us not 
formalize, having our eyes open only. On this question 
of antiquity one is exposed to a thousand errors. Let 
us not be dupes. We are not deceived on the question 
of antiquity by wardrobes and sideboards alone. Since 
the taste for ancient knick-knacks has taken root, trick- 
ery multiplies with the aim of satisfying it There 



104 THE VOICE OP NATURE. 

exists a trickery analogous to that in the domain of 
beliefs and principles. Would you have an example? 

The principle of free examination is decried in cer- 
tain centers as a new principle. Novel, new, young, 
inexperienced, are they not all of one family ? It dates 
to the Renaissance, this principle of the Reformation. 
Far more ancient, surer in consequence, wiser, more 
prudent, is the authoritative principle. In this the au- 
thorities are deceived. The principle of free examina- 
tion antedates theirs. And, besides, it is apostolic. St. 
Paul recommends it totheThessalonians in these terms, 
'Trove all things and keep to that which is good." But 
authoritative religion existed before St. Paul. Agreed ; 
but so did the principle of examination also. Christ 
said, "Seek, knock at the door — sound." But admit 
that Jesus here was but a late comer in history, after 
centuries of authoritative religion. Forget those 
prophets so ardent in their appeals to good sense, to the 
consciences and to the reason of their contemporaries. 

The principle of free examination has no less an- 
tiquity for itself. In fact it has almost existed before 
humanity. Do not seek here either subtlety or ex- 
aggeration. According to what law do plants grow? 
Each one of them feels all that ambient surrounding 
and holds only that which is good. Animals do the 
same. All organisms live on the same principle, to try, 
retain or reject. 

Human mind has no other law. As soon as it begins 
to live it judges ; as soon as it judges it makes a choice 
and trial — it proves and retains or rejects. It is by that 
law that the stomach digests and the lungs breathe. 



THE VOICE OF NATURE. 105 

And you call this principle young because for the last 
two or three centuries they have begun anew to see it. 
But even had it not been discovered until 1900, it would 
still be the elder of its oldest detractors, for it is eternal. 
Truth, even if we saw her for the first time, is as old 
as the stars of heaven. But, like them also, she is 
immortally young. 



TO SERVE AT THE RIGHT MOMENT. 

Between the culinary art and the art of speaking or 
writing there are numerous analogies and full of sense. 
To the disdainful litterateur trying to contest this, I 
offer whole a bouquet of locutions to smell, and all well 
made, to justify my claim. 

Do we not speak currently of the cooking of a news- 
paper, of literary taste, of the salt or pepper by which 
writers add to their style ? A certain book is a delicate 
dish, another an insipid ragout, a macedoine, a sal- 
magundi, a bouillabaisse. There are tonic readers and 
indigestible ones. Sometimes the reader devours like a 
gourmand, sometimes he takes it slowly like a connois- 
seur. To-day he eats daintily, to-morrow he licks his 
fingers. If he is sharp he often sees that you have 
served him a warmed-over dish. You may bring him 
the next day the same thing served covered with an- 
other sauce, the very piece of which he would have none 
the day before. Then, to change, you regale him with 
some side dish ; then, tired of straining and refining it, 
you say very raw things., 



106 THE VOICE OF NATURE. 

A cook, even a young one, having just passed the 
stage where they call him a spoil-sauce, could give 
writers, orators and educators something to reflect on, 
all those who have something to say to others. 

To help them to attain their goals of words, a certain 
faculty is indispensable. 

First, you must prepare your dish according to the 
needs of those for whom it is destined. Then you must 
present it to give it your seal, set it on the table exactly 
cooked to the point and the hour. How many men fail 
to recognize this last little detail. They always come 
in like the mustard after dinner, or too soon, while no 
one is yet hungry. They offer breakfast at night and 
supper in theimorning, and complain that they have not 
been successful. 

If what we have to say is of a delicate nature let us 
strain it, and, thanks to the seasoning, let us give it a 
favorable taste; let us prepare the ground, let us gild 
the pill. Truth is by no means that stereotyped and 
rigid thing which never changed shade nor aspect, and 
keeps the same face and the same impression at all 
hours. She needs to be appropriated to practical exac- 
tions, brought within our reach, brought nearer to our 
horizon. As you know how, or do not know how, to 
administrate, she will produce altogether different 
effects. There are people able to say everything, gain- 
ing hearers on the least agreeable subjects. Why? 
Question of cooking. Ask the recipe. 

All this came to my mind the other evening on ac- 
count of an altogether ordinary fact. 

The soup boiled in the kettle. Baby, wrapped in a 



THE VOICE OF NATURE. 107 

napkin whose corners formed for him ears like those 
of a donkey, agitated his arms and was glad to eat. His 
little sister quickly offered him an overfull spoon. 
Scarcely had he touched it when the nursling began to 
scream and, turning, defended himself with his hands 
and obstinately refused to eat. Persistence on the 
part of the little sister, exasperation on that of the 
brother. "Naughty baby, wicked baby that will not 
eat his soup." Mamma heard the cries and came upon 
the scene. "But, my child, that soup is far too hot. 
Wait until it is cool enough and baby will only too 
gladly eat it." 

A detail you say, a scene from the nursery ? That is 
nothing and has no signification nor value. Useless to 
speak of it- 
One instant, if you please. Have you not ever made 
observations, just, well-merited, and which produced no 
effect, to your friends, your children, your servants, and 
to other persons ? I made a mistake, for they invaria- 
bly exasperate those interested. Hard heads, you think, 
incorrigible dispositions. That may be the case. There 
are certain badly balanced individualities, to whom all 
criticism is an offence and who will take nothing from 
any one. Still, let me say to you, the fault is not always 
on the side of those who refuse to listen. It is often on 
the side of the one who speaks, even if what he says is 
absolutely reasonable. Then what is the matter ? It is 
because of the temperature. You served it too hot. 
Carried away by your first impulse, you empty your 
drink too hot, and you scald your audience. Naturally 
they are going to vociferate or fly. 



lOg THE VOICE OF NATURE. 

Take more precautions, let it stand, let it cool, and 
you will find that you please. 

Others fall into the opposite excess. They serve too 
cold. What they say has neither savor nor strength, so 
congealed it is. Thus they talk at a pure loss. 

A third complains that he never reaches any solid 
end, in spite of the evident quality of his knowledge, or 
the fervor of his propaganda. Watch him well; he 
spoils all because he peppers right and left. 

I assure you in all seriousness, lessons of tact, of 
judicious proceedings are to be borrowed from cooks. 
All teachers, all journalists who respect themselves, and 
all apostles of a cause should initiate themselves into the 
culinary methods and learn to transpose their domain. 
Knowledge, talent and zeal are not enough. A crowd 
of men, very capable and animated by the best inten- 
tions, still do not succeed excepting in proving contra- 
dictions instead of spreading conviction in minds. 
What is lacking, then? A little of that spirit of exact 
measure and exact time which distinguishes the cordon 
bleu, and without which the greatest thinker risks burn- 
ing his cooking or putting his feet in his dish. 



MONSIEUR SON-IN-LAW. 

The widow Martin married the eldest of her four 
daughters last year. The son-in-law is a real cock-of- 
the-walk. For years there had not been a man in the 



THE VOICE OF NATURE. 109 

house. The first to enter it therefore found very 
favorable circumstances, and installed himself there as 
a privileged person. They were all glad of his pres- 
ence, and asked but to spoil him. His word carried an 
almost ridiculous authority. 

Now, this gentleman abused it most decidedly. He 
was a man of strong opinions and a jealous intoler- 
ance. A little firmness and opposition would have been 
salutary for him. The preliminary disposition to find 
everything that he did or said good, and to bow before 
all his wills, had made a small tyrant of him. 

The family was large, surrounded by a circle of 
friends of very varied sorts of opinions and circum- 
stances, the which constitutes a good centre, large, ven- 
tilated, where one could hear the sound of all the politi- 
cal or religious bells ring. Naturally, the marriage 
changed nothing of the old relations. They met often, 
they neighbored, they dined together, on regular days, 
and every one said what he thought without fear or 
malice. The free speech was the foundation. They 
had all the liberties save that of getting angry. 

Monsieur son-in-law thought that scandalous. They 
uttered enormities, they sustained dangerous opinions, 
they sapped the bases of society, of religion and of the 
family. These interlocutors, note it well, were all good 
people, enlightened, correct, respecting the rights and 
thoughts of others. Some were more to the right, 
others more to the left, but they were not sectarians 
neither of authority, nor of independence. They talked 
more than discussed, and if ever the dialogue grew 
close, and they reached a dangerous heat, it was with 



HO THE VOICE OF NATURE. 

courtesy, even on the gravest problems. Then they 
parted friends without bitterness. 

Monsieur son-in-law could not take part in such a 
frame of mind. He suffered from it, it made him ill. 
The contrast between the family reunions where he 
was but a guest like the rest, and the daily life where 
he reigned alone, was a cruel trial for him. When he 
was alone with the five good people who adored him he 
was dogmatic, thunderous, he excommunicated. He 
paid for the silence he had kept before those interlocu- 
tors armed with reasons. Returning to the conversa- 
tions at the dinner of the day before he declared that 
he found them regrettable. He had preferred to keep 
silence rather than to provoke a scandal, but really he 
ought to have protested. Certain things should not be 
said ; doubts exist which it is not permitted any one to 
express — authorities unquestionable. If the first comer 
could in the name of science, or conscience, examine, 
weigh, attack these venerable doctrines on which so- 
ciety and religion lived for centuries past, where would 
it end? 

In short, monsieur son-in-law wished to insist that 
they should not speak at table of religion, of politics, 
nor of certain moral or social questions. That would 
be better than those rash babblings. But, if the desire 
is clear, the means for realizing it can scarcely be 
found. They could not muzzle their guests, nor exact, 
while seated at another's table, that those objectionable 
questions should be avoided. So Madame Martin and 
her daughters reached the extreme limit of the conces- 
sions possible to make. They were facing the first 



THE VOICE OF NATURE. ;Ql 

great difficulty of the household. A certain discontent 
reigned in all their hearts, and monsieur son-in-law 
was annoyed. The other night, in the parlor, he held 
a family album, and for an hour he gave himself up to 
a work that seemed to absorb him greatly. His mother- 
in-law approached and said: "What are you doing, 
my son?" 

"I am classing this album according to my sympa- 
thies and antipathies." 

"And whose are those photographs that you have 
taken out and have even thrown down on the floor ?" 

"They are heads that displease me decidedly. You 
will do me a great pleasure in hiding them away in 
some drawer." 

"Dear son, you know that all my wish is that you 
should be happy, but I cannot sacrifice my old friends 
for the sole reason that there is a difference of opinion 
between you and them. Put yourself in my place. Be- 
sides, I have still three daughters to marry. If each of 
my three sons-in-law whom I hope to have some day 
ask me to expurgate my family album nothing would 
remain of it but the cover. We must know how to bear 
with and love persons whose convictions are diverse. 
If families divided simply for motives of difference of 
opinion, what would become of the country, that 
greater family ? There are ties superior even to the ties 
of our most holy beliefs, and they are those of gentle- 
ness, kindness and benevolent fraternity. What would 
our beliefs be worth if they are not strong enough to 
maintain us in the brotherhood, which surpasses in 
meaning all the doctrines and formulas ?" 



112 THE VOICE OF NATURE. 

"Good mother, I have the regret to hold on that sub- 
ject quite different ideas. Principle before everything. 
Friendship, relationship, benevolence, all should bend 
before principle." 

"My dear son, I respect your principles. But I will 
not follow you in that road. It leads far, too far. I 
should be afraid that I should come to walk in places 
where they never meet charity again." 



Decidedly I am for good mother-in-law. This mon- 
sieur son-in-law reminds me of those men ceaselessly 
engaged in expurgating the country, the church, or even 
that little sect to which they belong. To reduce one's 
adversary to silence, to lay a finger on the questions and 
say, "That is closed, fixed, judged; do not touch it," 
but of one's own authority to revise, correct or deci- 
mate that book of history, what an impious enterprise 
and as fanatical as absurd. Is there a hero, a saint, a 
thinker or a martyr who would find grace in the eyes 
of all parties? At this count there would remain not 
I one page nor one face in the book of gold of the past. 

Let us take the world as it is. Accept all its con- 
trasts and its varieties, and let us not attempt to pass 
the level of our principles on men and things. Let us 
be firm in our convictions and our beliefs, supporting 
and respecting those of others, discussing them and 
allowing others the same privilege. But let us create 
ties deeper than those of doctrine; fraternize with 



THE VOICE OP NATURE. H3 

those who think as we do. However venerable an idea 
may be, however numerous the quarterings of nobility- 
there are on that grand seigneur called a "principle," to 
force ourselves to bow before the commandment which 
is superior to all, "Little children, love one another." 



WELL INFORMED. 

The student Fortenix had just successfully competed 
for a prize in astronomy. This was an occasion to re- 
gale his friends. He invited three of his friends to 
breakfast at a restaurant. While waiting for the hour 
he shaved himself in his room on the fifth floor, rue de 
Fleurus. 

A little after eleven o'clock his friend Dumont en- 
tered without knocking and clapped him on the back, 
saying : 

"Good morning, Victor; how does it go?" 

"Don't push me, you'll make me cut myself. Sit 
down and read the paper. You are ahead of time." 

"Ahead ! No, it is noon." 

"Are you sure? I am only eleven thirty-five." 

"I have just set my watch by the big clock at the 
Luxembourg." 



114 THE VOICE OF NATURE. 

"A thousand pardons if that is the case. My watch 
loses time and I will set it right." 

About twenty minutes later Mignard comes in daint- 
ily, with a rose in his button hole. The two others 
received him, saying : 

"Ah, there you are, you old rascal." 

"Yes, as always, on military time." 

"How military? It is twenty minutes past twelve, 
and the rendezvous is for noon." 

"It is exactly noon. I have a watch that never trips, 
and, besides, I have just set it by the clock at the 
Luxembourg, or rather it was just right by that clock." 

"Ah, I've caught you at your tricks ! The Luxem- 
bourg time is this, twenty minutes after twelve, neither 
more nor less." 

"Don't be vexed, Dumont. We'll ask Gignon when 
he comes." 

But Gignon was late. To kill the time they smoked 
a lot of cigarettes. On his side Gignon hurries, hur- 
ries from his distant hospital by the rue des Ecoles, the 
rue Racine and the Odeon. He knows that he is late, 
poor fellow, and does not like to keep the others wait- 
ing. Fortunately, in passing the Luxembourg he had 
the idea to look at the big clock, and, reassured, he 
slowed his watch, and his steps also, and made the tour 
of the pepiniere to get his breath. Then he mounted to 
Fortenix, calm, like one who arrives at the exact mo- 
ment. Scarcely had the door opened when the three 
others began to apostrophize him, and say "Put him 
out!" 

"Late? Was it not for noon?" 



THE VOICE OF NATURE ^g 

"Yes, but it is a long time since noon." 

"As to that, no. I am well informed. I have just set 
my watch by the clock of Luxembourg." 

"How? He, too. This is a comedy. Which of us 
three is right ?" 

All cried that "It is me." 

Fortenix said gravely : 

"Take out your watches. Let's compare them." 

They did so. Dumont's marked a quarter to one; 
Mignard's, twenty minutes after twelve ; Gignon's, ten 
minutes after twelve. 

"Very well, when one has an Omega like yours, Gig- 
non, or like yours, Dumont, or a Peugeot in a bronzed 
aluminum case, people do not meddle with the time. 
Here is a watch, mine, an authentic chronometer, 
stamped by the observatory at Geneva." 

"Hush, Mignard. You are not patriotic to seek your 
time in a foreign time-piece. Are these people going 
to meddle in telling us the time in France? Does that 
matter to them? Besides, there is a means of coming 
to our accord. To go to Boul. Mich, we will pass by 
the Luxembourg, and can see what time it is. These 
discussions are profitless, and should cease." 

And they went out. 

When they reached the venerable facade of the Palais 
du Senat, the four young men stopped, with open 
mouths at first, and then they were shaken by a 
Homeric laugh. It was still twelve o'clock. 

In politics, in religion, in business and justice how 
many people there are who inform themselves like 
these young nurslings of the muses ! News circulates, 



lift THE VOICE OF NATURE. 

reputations melt, opinions form and are uprooted, ideas 
are installed which should cause to live or which may 
cause to die. Go to the bottom of things. There are 
but stories, hypotheses, categorical affirmations without 
doubt, but they are gratuitous. They have all or nearly 
all set their watches by clocks which do not go. 

These clocks exercise quite a particular fascination 
for some. They are immovable and always mark the 
same hour. A little more, they would make us believe 
that they marked the hour of eternity. 



IMPOSSIBLE SYMPATHY. 

It is said, "Weep with those who weep." And that 
is the best way to console. To talk with them, to 
reason with them, to attempt to amuse, or preach — all 
that like a moral help is not worth one sincere tear, and 
you shall understand why. 

Jean Pierre went to America about 1846, leaving his 
father's plow and his five brothers. Since then he 
wrote them but rarely and told them that he had suc- 
ceeded in his business, but nothing more. A last, brief 
letter was received in 1853, and then no more. 

At the death of the father, which happened not long 
after, the brothers divided his property, the sixth par' 



THE VOICE OP NATURE. H7 

being reserved for the absent brother and confided to a 
notary. 

Twenty years passed without news from him. 

Every time a child of that province went to America 
he was asked to find trace of him. And, as no news 
was received, or trace found, they finally had recourse 
to the courts. It was established that Jean Pierre hav- 
ing left his last residence in 1853 had gone to some 
unknown destination; all trace of him was therefore 
lost, and no one knew where he was, alive or dead. 

During this time his fields and meadows brought 
him, good year and bad, about a thousand francs, which 
were deposited with a business man. It grew and 
rounded out. Jealous ones felt more or less envy. As 
to the brothers, all married and fathers of families, they 
said: 

"Jean Pierre is dead — that is certain. We have no 
proofs, but one day or other all his property will come 
to us and our children. We will let it grow and swell 
in the meantime. It is like a good cloud which forms 
and approaches. One day it will fall on our heads in a 
rain of gold." 

Twenty-five or thirty thousand. francs is a great sum 
for those who earn their bread in the furrows at the 
sweat of their brows. They must reap, make the bun- 
dles, tie them, make stacks, sheafs and sell them, also 
dozens of eggs or rolls of butter, to at last realize a 
thousand franc note. 

So, as the years ran along, the place that Jean Pierre 
took in his brother's minds became more and more 
disquieting. Their daughters were considered as the 



113 THE VOICE OF NATURE. 

heiresses by all the village, and pretendants began to 
ask for their hands. 

During the long winter nights they reckoned the part 
which would belong to each when the division should 
be made. Around the tables in the village inn the t 
lawyers, in wooden shoes, spoke oracles on the question. 

One morning in November it had snowed in a savage 
manner. The poor rural letter carrier reached his desti- 
nation all white and covered with icicles. To the first 
one he met he said : "I have in my sack a letter from 
America for Jean Pierre's brothers." In five minutes 
the whole village knew it. The brothers ran to the 
home of their eldest; half the village people gathered 
under the windows. "It is a notification of his death," 
said some. "Perhaps yes and perhaps no; we cannot 
tell," said others. The postman had shaken the snow 
from his garments ; his letter delivered, he stood be- 
hind the stove, hoping to have a fat tip. Then, before 
his brothers and their united families, the eldest 
brother, trembling in the midst of the general emotion, 
read what follows : 

"I ask of you all pardon for having left you so long 
without news. My intention was to abandon to you 
all which came to me from my father. But reverses of 
fortune forbid that I should do this. I have lost all in 
a great financial crash. Old and broken, I am about to 
return to Europe with my wife and children. 

"Jean Pierre." 

A deadly silence followed the reading of this letter. 
Then they looked at each other stupidly, appearing like 



THE VOICE OF NATURE. ±±Q 

people who had received a heavy blow which had 
stunned them,. 

At last the women began to weep, and little by little 
the whole family broke out into lamentations over this 
brother, who was thus restored to them. The postman 
slipped out like a bird of sorrow, feeling vaguely re- 
sponsible for the news he had brought. 

Few dead men are wept as sincerely as was this 
living brother. But there was one thing which I would 
have been glad to partake of still less, and that was the 
unholy joy of some of the spectators outside, only yes- 
terday envious of the hopes of the heirs, to-day rav- 
ished at their discomfiture. 



TO DISTRUST ONESELF. 

No, I am not distrustful by nature. The saddest 
experiences have not converted me to that state of 
mind, which should only belong to judges, and be 
shown to robbers and criminals. We should believe in 
goodness. One is less often deceived in so doing. It 
is a pure superstition to suppose that the greater part 
of men are stained in some way, and to pass one's life 
with a hand on one's pocketbook or revolver, as though 
the whole society was composed of men of the sack 
and cord. 



120 THE VOICE OP NATURE. 

But there is a right measure for everything, even to 
confidence. So I ask nothing better than to believe in 
the good faith of people and to admit that they are sin- 
cere in their words ; above all, when they express their 
religious convictions. But I have noticed throughout 
my life that the most honest among us pay themselves 
easily with words. Now, these words are recipients. 
It remains to know what we put into them. A bon-bon 
or a vial may hold a salutary beverage or a poison and 
show nothing of its quality, and the same word may 
contain very different ideas. It is possible, above all, 
that it be absolutely empty, and that constantly hap- 
pens. To talk is not always to stir up one's thoughts. 
It is to juggle with empty forms. A judicious distrust 
and one without malice is an excellent companion to 
listen to discourses or read writings. 

It is wise to mistrust those who pronounce big, con- 
sequential words with ease, which are susceptible of a 
widespread meaning, words deserving of being called 
grave because they are vast and resonant, loaded with 
substance. Those who pronounce such words with ease 
do not know their value and lodge nothing in them; 
otherwise they would perceive their weight. 

Have you ever noticed with what simple expressions 
Christ himself served to announce the news which was 
to change the face of the world ? The apostles left Him 
far behind them on the employment of grandiose, mys- 
terious and solemn terms. The fathers of the church 
went farther than the apostles. To-day there is no 
orator or author, however well-dyed in theology or 
philosophy, who regularly uses the clear-cut words. 



THE VOICE OF NATURE. 121 

One asks himself how it is that they do not bend be- 
neath the weight of the burden of such great words, for 
all the human and divine mysteries are contained 
therein. Distrust yourself ! Those who employ these 
enormous terms, have they really measured their depths 
and heights, traversed their immensities? It has been 
said that we must not take the name of God in vain ; 
that yes be yes, and no, no. The counsel is in a general 
sense. We should not pronounce one word in vain. It 
is a lack of respect for the holiest thing we have, 
thought. On how many lips do words not become vain ! 
One would say they have lost their energy. It is very 
simple ; they are empty. An empty vessel will not in- 
toxicate any one. 

In the domain of sentiments, the vanity of the lan- 
guage is not less than in that of the idea. They pro- 
nounce the most decisive formulas without winking and 
those engaging the greatest responsibility. Sacrifice, 
devotion, love, pardon, pity, these words fall from lips 
and pens with as great abundance and facility as drops 
of crystal purity fall from a fountain. 

But there is nothing that can equal the newspapers in 
the great play of words used right and left, 

This one will announce the most sinister news ; that 
one speaks of his adversaries as though they were a 
band of brigands; a third in an article unveils all the 
most terrifying arcanums of European politics, as 
though he had the key to all the private drawers, the 
ears of all the sovereigns. After that they take their 
copy to the printer, and go to breakfast in a state of 
entire calm. If what they said were serious, if they 



122 THE VOICE OF NATURE. 

believed it themselves, it would take away their appe- 
tites and hinder them from sleeping. Distrust oneself ! 

The other day, in a steep street, there passed near me 
a truck on which were piled fifty or sixty hogsheads, 
drawn by one single horse. One of my children ob- 
served : 

"Papa, that horse must be enormously strong to 
draw all those hogsheads of wine." 

"Those hogsheads are empty, my son," I replied. 
"If they were all full no four horses could draw them." 

How many empty casks are carried thus by people. 
Distrust them ! When you have heard something very 
sonorous be very prudent; perhaps they have rolled 
before you, artfully, a majestic tun, long since emptied 
of its contents, but which sounds the louder for that. 

One true word, sincere and full as an egg, moves 
itself simply and not without effort. One cannot say 
many such words in one day ; one would succumb with 
the efTort. But they are alive, strong, active. The less 
noise they make, the more work they do. In them is 
hidden such a power that they strike down, or else con- 
sole, lift up and draw onward. 

I have often prayed to God this prayer, to be able to 
say every day of my life and under all circumstances, 
with an absolute confidence and accepting the con- 
sequences that they may bring, these six words only: 
"I believe in God, the Father." With that I shall have 
provisions of courage, of tranquil hope and of good and 
cordial fraternity lasting for hundreds and hundreds 
of centuries. Nothing will ever stop me or make me 
afraid. I will brave death, I will move mountains. 



THE VOICE OF NATURE. 123 

We hear and speak so many beautiful and sublime 
words, and they ordinarily have so little effect. Why? 
Alas ! alas ! What do we put in the words ? All lies in 
that. Distrust, distrust, and above all distrust oneself ! 



FIND THE FORMULA. 

Everybody knows the automatic distributors. These 
are of all forms. Here for a penny you may find the 
secret of your future. There for ten cents you are 
served with a box of candy, a square of chocolate, a 
bottle of perfume, or even to see photographs. 
Facetious mechanics have created an automatic chicken 
which claps its wings and crows like a rooster, and for 
two cents lays you eggs of metal filled with nasty pep- 
permint pastilles. These automatic distributors do 
good business doubtless, since every day sees more of 
them. One single check is to be stated. We have seen 
in certain neighborhoods rise above the sidewalks big, 
hollow columns, very ugly ones, which were intended 
to distribute hot water automatically to housekeepers. 
The enterprise never came to anything, I think, for not 
one of those columns near which I passed was ever 
finished. 

The water not having been a success, they tried to 
distribute alcoholic beverages by the same proceeding. 
The drinkers entered a sort of bar where for small 
sums they could get beer, wine, cider, coffee and all the 
series of bitters and appetizers without the intervention 



124 THE VOICE OF NATURE. 

of any bar-tender. The service was accomplished by 
the distributors. As soon as the piece of money was 
put into the apparatus the order was filled. No tedious 
waiting; no preference for the clients. A waiter in a 
cafe and a girl in a brewery have different ways of 
serving. They despise some and favor others, and are 
some times quick and at others of an exasperating slow- 
ness. The distributor knows no differences; it shows 
the same face to all. It is the ideal of impartiality. It 
is true that at your departure it cannot salute you, nor 
help you to put your coat on, but did it ever expect a 
tip, or receive one with a disdainful air from a modest 
client? 

Not all is to be condemned in this system. When 
perfected it can simplify life. We will have some day 
incorrigible fustians, actors, professors and orators, all 
automatic. And that would be a clear gain. So many 
men would be advantageously replaced by this mechan- 
ism, for they are themselves but poor machines which 
grate and scratch noisily or stop every moment. I have 
not, then, come to make war on those little machines, 
whatever the astute avarice and commercial double- 
dealing of those who exploit them, and for the good 
money that we put in furnish us with doubtful prod- 
ucts. The machine is not responsible for the intentions 
of the proprietor, and, besides, does not allow itself to 
accept anything from any one but those who really wish 
the article within. 

What I would wish is to draw from those archi- 
modern instruments certain analogies in the intellectual 
and moral domain. The idea came to me the other 



THE VOICE OP NATURE. 125 

day in a telegraph office. I saw the public pass before 
the little box that held the printed slips destined to re- 
ceive the telegrams, and bears this suggestive notice: 
"Draw out the formulas. " The more I looked at these 
four little words, the more I was struck by their sym- 
bolic bearing. Draw out the formula. That is a sort 
of universal device regarding practices already adopted, 
and characterizing the most widespread state of mind 
of these days. A crowd of our contemporaries have 
received no other education than that embodied in those 
words. The years of their youth have been passed 
in gathering an abundant provision of formulas. As 
the druggists put their drugs in pills, the capable in- 
tellectual druggists put science, history, politics, social 
economy, morals or religion into formulas. The value 
of this automatic method to the young nurslings is 
judged by their dexterity in drawing out the formula. 
In examinations which could be compared to mechani- 
cal essays, they ask them questions as they would press 
a button. If the machine works, well, they put the fac- 
tory-mark on him, and he is admitted to practice. The 
property of these automatic educations is to form sub- 
jects each resembling the other as do the sample ma- 
chines constructed on the same model. Their intel- 
lectual function is so governed that one can easily tell 
what will come out if the button is pressed. Between 
an automatic musical automaton and man, who is a 
reasoning machine, there may be differences, but they 
are in the favor of the music boxes. I am completely 
saturated with this system, which at length takes away 
all our originality, but it has not ceased to please the 



126 the VOICE OF nature: 

greater number, and for the simple reason that there is 
nothing handier. 

Why put ourselves to the trouble of seeking other 
things when a good collection of formulas will suffice 
to solve all the questions ? It is an altogether too pain- 
ful business, that of the seeker for truth. To clear new 
fields, to walk far from well-trodden paths, to set 
serious and luminous rights wrong, what an enter- 
prise ! Life would not be long enough. Would it not 
be better to carry along the road a sack of formulas ? 

Thus runs the world. We could not distrust this 
disquieting laziness of mind which is winning us. For, 
there is no denying it, life is kept up by the habit above 
all things, however old, of thinking for oneself. The 
farther the empire of formula extends, the smaller the 
horizon grows. There is nothing more bad, dangerous 
and false than a ready-made answer. We reach it by 
the system of never producing any more personal 
thought, and if Descartes had reason to say : "1 think; 
therefore I am," we must conclude that the majority 
of men do not exist, for they do not think. 

It was after these pessimistic reflections that I left 
the telegraph office, throwing a last look at the symbolic 
box and its disquieting invitation, "Draw out the for- 
mula." 



INFAMOUS CAPITAL. 

I consider the coupling of those words as a sort of 
forced marriage. Since this marriage has taken place 



THE VOICE OF NATURE. 127 

there is a substantive afflicted with a very vexatious 
qualification. It can no longer show itself in public 
without its hanger-on. As the shadow follows the 
body, the orderly the colonel, infamous follows capital. 
Capital may show itself never so generous, humane, 
just, noble; those adjectives are not for it. It is in- 
famous, and infamous it should remain. Let it go out 
in a carriage or on foot, let it be high or low, be phil- 
anthropic, sick nurse, defender of feeble ones or exploit 
them without shame, it does not alter the matter at all. 
For capital is infamous by its very essence, as the negro 
is black. Do what it may, capital will never get rid of 
its original spot in the eyes of certain people. Would 
they pardon it if it consented to die by pure devotion ? 
I fear not. They would inscribe on its tomb, "Here lies 
infamous capital." This is a crying injustice, a monu- 
mental absurdity. 

Capital is an instrument. It all depends upon the 
hands that hold it. It is neither dangerous, maleficent, 
oppressor nor corrupter in itself. It is not unclean or 
ferocious by nature. Certain millions are as honest as 
little pennies. Where, then, would be the grandeur of 
capital which will give the measure of its infamy? It 
would be like measuring dogs around their chests and 
9 saying that the largest were the most vicious. The 
Newfoundland and the Saint Bernard are large beasts, 
and very well armed. Yet they harm no one. One 
jumps into the water to save a life in danger, and the 
other in the stormy nights goes to seek lost travellers. 
But the little fellows, on the contrary, which are no 
larger than a rabbit are often aggressive, savage and 



128 THE VOICE OP NATURE. 

implacable. One would say of these wretched little 
barkers that they have tiger blood in their veins. Thus 
people can possess millions with a fraternal heart, and 
small capitals with an instinct of ferocity. 

Let us not listen to the declamations of arty one. 
Watch how the people live ; it is a much surer way to 
judge of their value. It is incontestable that there is a 
large number of rich who do not merit their situation 
and abuse it scandalously. In their hands capital is 
hateful, bears evil fruit, engenders rottenness and 
serves but to augment the sum of evil in the world. 

But do not think that if the power should be given to 
me that I would hasten to confide their treasures to a 
syndicate composed of those who envy them. Never 
in the world ! After having turned the matter over and 
over, I might perhaps leave the things in the condition 
where they now are, for fear the remedy would be 
worse than the evil. A droll combination it would be 
to repair the wrong-doings of one single bad man, to 
call in several others to it. 

If, however, I were here to make a decision, I would 
not offer the administration of these illy employed 
means to one of those who claimed it. 

And, above all, I should take good care not to confide 
this important deposit to a few brave people, accus- 
tomed to handle the plow, to write good books, to in- 
struct youth and to form public spirit. 

I would be too much afraid that they would not 
understand each other, that their capacities would not 
reach the heights of their good will, that they would 
fall into the hands of some clever brewers of business, 



THE VOICE OF NATURE. 129 

to use a mild term. But I would go and seek at his 
home, in spite of him, one of those rich men who under- 
stand their business, knowing how to manoeuvre their 
possessions as a captain his troops, with order, pre- 
cision and economy, making it a point of honor not to 
be tricked by any one, and not to spend one cent with- 
out need — not doing that from avarice, but the better to 
serve the general good. Such men exist. I know sev- 
eral of them. They are able to repose from business, to 
allow themselves all the pleasures, and carve for them- 
selves in this changeable life an exceptional career. 
They prefer to load the burdens of others on their 
shoulders, to charge themselves with a quantity of 
affairs which neither you nor I would wish, take the 
heavy loads, use their days in cares but too often recom- 
pensed by ingratitude. One could not reasonably find 
any interested motive in doing all this. They do good, 
not to reach public position, nor even to leave a respect- 
able name to their children. Among them some have 
lost their children and others never had any. In the 
eyes of an ordinary man, armed in his thick good sense, 
or guided by his selfish calculations, they are crazy to 
take so much trouble. Very well ; it is to just such 
fools that I would confide badly employed capital. 

They, also, are infamous. But their infamy inspires 
me with more confidence than the honesty of their de- 
tractors. Such men have no equals, I believe. I honor 
them above all. The men of middling or inferior con- 
dition, the most upright small bourgeois, or the most 
respectable, in spite of the respect which they deserve 
can never inspire such a complete sense of security. 



130 THE VOICE OF NATURE. 

Riches are such a trial of one's worth that no one can 
tell what he might become with them. 

And if, feeling myself bound by certain words from 
the Evangels, I would "sell all I have and give it to the 
poor/' I would still choose these same intermediaries, 
sure that in their hands the interests of the poor would 
be better protected than in the hands of the poor them- 
selves. 

To irrigate a vast country of plains and prairies, 
nothing is so good as a high region of springs, of 
glaciers and snow. Nature has its capital. I do not 
think that human society can ever surpass it. Do not 
desire their destruction or their falling into infinitesimal 
atoms. 

Do you believe that the fields of Europe would be so 
fertile if, instead of the enormous provisions gathered 
in the Alps and the Pyrenees, each little butte had its 
cap of ice or each hill its wig of eternal snow ? 



READY MONEY. 

Without thinking of evil you are going on your 
way, when some one slips a little ticket into your hand 
somewhat like a ticket for the railroad. On this square 
of pasteboard you read : "Ready money," with an ad- 
dress. 

Quite near there, in fact, a booth was installed, bank 



THE VOICE OF NATURE. 131 

notes and pieces of gold and silver money of various 
nations were strewn around in profusion. It was in 
this booth that the little card said you were to enter if 
you were embarrassed for money — and had hopes. 
They would buy your hopes for the reality, your future 
money for ready money counted down to you. The 
operation finished, it comes out that you have sold your 
wheat while green. With the hope of getting out of 
an actual embarrassment you will have created worse 
ones for the future. To fill a ditch you would have 
opened an abyss. But some one will be happy, and that 
is the proprietor of the booth. Needy, thin, embar- 
rassed, you will have been well squeezed between his 
hands, having furnished, with other poor wretches like 
yourself, the means of fattening this honest industrial. 

One could read many histories between the lines of 
this little card. Sombre stories, always returning to 
certain elements, always alike, monotonous dramas, 
where the same actors always move about. This ticket 
is the running noose thrown like a line of safety to one 
who is about to drown ; it is to the fugitive seeking an 
asylum, a brigand's cavern, in place of a shelter. A 
man in the water sees the rope and seizes it ; a being in 
distress behind whom enemies are tearing sees an open 
door and precipitates himself within. Has he had time 
to reflect whether he will gain by the change? 

If you have no hopes to offer in merchandise, the 
entry of that little office has no danger for you. You 
will have no temptation to make bad debts, and for 
good reason. 

They receive you politely on your entry, it is true. 



132 THE VOICE OF NATURE. 

You profit by the expenses made on the exploitable 
clients. You will be met with a smile, like the sparrow 
which gathers a few grains around the nets set for 
partridges and wood-pigeons. But how much the face 
presented to you on your entrance changes on your 
first words ! No portfolio of office, not the least value 
on paper to show, no life insurance, no deeds, no 
effects, not even a pawn ticket ! And you have the 
audacity to cross his threshold ! Why ? To have ready 
money. Guaranteed by what ? By your honest face ? 
A good joke. 

The ferret does not lift his mustache in a more dis- 
dainful fashion over a porcelain egg than the gentle- 
man of this bureau does his disappointed lip. A catch, 
then ! You have gone there to make him pose like a 
rabbit. Your affair is soon settled, and the door which 
closed behind you brusquely says things not waiting for 
commentary. 

Hurry, then, to throw the little card behind you with 
its fallacious promise of money at once. Very soon 
without that, you will hear a voice in your ear whisper : 
"Did you think by hazard of entering a post of succor 
for the unlucky ? What childishness ! But do not be 
discouraged. Ready money — that exists somewhere for 
you, but elsewhere. Who seeks, finds. You have no 
papers to offer in exchange; but have you nothing to 
sell ? A little of your honor, of conscience, of virtue, of 
truth. What if you sold the reputation of your neigh- 
bor ? One has confided a secret to you ; what if you 
carried it to market ? You have a pen ; what if you 
trafficked with it ? You are young, beautiful. That is 



THE VOICE OP NATURE. ^33 

as valuable as a pawn ticket, a railroad bond, or the 
expectation of an inheritance. Beat out gold with your 
beauty, put your youth in a lottery, and the little card 
would not be wrong in saying to you, 'Ready money/ 

"If you have nothing to sell of any kind, seek other 
things. Be an undoer of things. Do not allow your- 
self to be without funds on that account. Go to the 
sources. Explore the road to money drawers ; learn the 
topography of strong-boxes. You need ready money. 
There is plenty there. Surmount the distance that 
separates you from it. Take and do not be taken. To 
earn it by work is to be a dupe. It is too long, too 
hard, too little remunerative, unworthy of a freeman. 
Leave it to the blind spirits, slaves of that old foolish- 
ness. Duty — leave them the decidedly old-fashioned 
means of working for their money. Liberate yourself 
boldly from vulgar prejudices. The term robber is a 
silly bugbear which clever men invented to frighten 
timid ones. For yourself, do not be a wet hen. Watch 
the occasion, learn how to provoke it ; and if it delays, 
and when it shows itself, jump on it. That is the law 
and the prophets." 

Astounded by such suggestions, you ask yourself: 
Who, then, gave me that accursed ticket? You smell 
to see if there is not an odor of sulphur in the air. 

No, it is only printer's ink, acrid and penetrating. 
And the poor man who gave it to you, from where did 
he come? You pass by near him, and examine him 
with a rather ridiculous distrust, thinking to see a 
cloven foot, a hairy hand garnished with claws. But 
no, it is an old man bent, and with an honest face. 



134 THE VOICE OF NATURE. 

Well, in spite of that, be sure of the matter. That 
formula, ready money, comes from a detestable office. 
It is empoisoned, corrupting, and bears the mark which 
you must defy, the mark of the tempter. 



A NEW DIVINITY. 

"In those days all the men were bicyclists or photog- 
raphers and the multitude believed in aperients." Thus 
some future historian can speak of us when we shall 
have ceased for a long time to kill worms. 

"They believed in aperients." That is just it. 

The aperient is altogether a new divinity. She has 
her temples, her priests, her faithful and receives sacri- 
fices. No other .sanctuary is so much in vogue. The 
office is never interrupted, night or day — the zealots 
hasten there. Dense masses, always being renewed, 
reach there chanting the introibo! 

When people prepare themselves for war, they take 
strong aperients to give themselves new strength. 
When they conclude a peace, they take them to seal the 
treaties. The harvest is great, and they rejoice with 
aperients. Is bread dear? — they call an aperient in to 
console themselves. Are you ill ? — take an aperient ; 
it will cure you. Are you in good health? — take one 



THE VOICE OP NATURE. 135 

without fail ; it will keep you so. The aperient is 
good in the winter because it is cold, in summer be- 
cause it is warm. It is suitable to drink at christen- 
ings, so that the nurslings may prosper; at funerals, 
that the dead may sleep in peace. 

In ancient times nations occupied in founding colo- 
nies, began by first installing their gods ; the moderns 
by implanting their aperients there. To them be the 
glory and honor ! 

It is permitted us to find fault with kings, the pope, 
national glories, even God. But a jealous throng 
watches over the sacred aperient. They would sooner 
allow essential liberties to. be taken from them, strips 
of territory, than to give up the aperient. 

It is becoming to scold when paying one's dues, and 
it is a slave's practice to pay one's debts to-day instead 
of putting them off until to-morrow. But, if the aperi- 
ent takes your last penny, it is with enthusiasm and 
without delay that we go and throw it on the zinc altar. 
One forgets the hour for the train, of the post, of work, 
but one does not forget the green hour of absinthe. 
That the wife supplicates, that the child cries, that duty 
calls, what of it? Cannot duty wait? The wife and 
child, can they not wait in vain a while ? 

Understood that the aperient does not wait. 

In fact, the aperient is great and it reigns. 

To gain such a faith, inspire that confidence, provoke 
such sacrifices, what has this new divinity done? By 
what miracles is its empire, justified? Aperient comes 
from the Latin of aperire, to open. What does it open ? 
Does it hold in its hand the golden key to happiness? 



136 THE VOICE OF NATURE. 

Does it open the intelligence? Does it sharpen the ap- 
petite? Do its worshippers have lighter hearts, richer 
blood, stronger arms, brighter eyes, or a more solid 
stomach? Are they able to work longer, be more 
tenacious in wrestling, better fathers, and better sons, 
better artisans or soldiers? Do they breathe through 
their homes the benefits of the god they serve ? 

The facts consulted answer this : The ones who 
take aperients, in general have poor blood, their eyes 
weak, and their members affected by a trembling more 
or less pronounced. Their thoughts are dark. They 
are inclined to a bad humor, haunted by melancholy. 

In Germany they call those Macabre fantasies, vex- 
ing or uncouth, which germ in their brain-cells, 
Schnapsidee. I find that term very striking. 

Certain thoughts, in fact, are comparable with the 
impure vapors which rise on these mingled alcohols. 
Natural wine has a toning effect, while clear water 
clears the brain, but at the bottom of these greenish 
cups, yellowish or brownish, where the aperients are 
found, there is a whole world of lugubrious images, a 
whole philosophy of pessimism. When one has the 
mind befogged by alcoholic emanations, all energy is 
destroyed, and gayety dies. One becomes a coward in 
word and poltroon in combat, incapable of generous 
effort. Once enervated and lessened, even at the very 
sources of life, how can they become parents of fine 
children? They are born old. A germ of precocious 
decrepitude is in 'them. And what education can they 
give them ? Between straying fathers and nervous sons, 
what becomes of the calm good sense necessary to dis- 



THE VOICE OF NATURE. 137 

cipline? There is neither measure, authority nor re- 
spect. From that arise continual rubbings, continual 
exasperations. So the peace of the home is destroyed. 
Prosperity follows the same road. It is moral and 
material ruin. 

The aperient is a divinity of misery. It does not 
deserve the honors that they give it. All in it is decep- 
tive, even the name. I deceive myself in this. For it 
does not open the appetite, nor the mind, nor does it 
open the doors of felicity, but it opens the doors of 
insane asylums, of prisons and the galleys ; it opens the 
mouth for injuries and foolishness, and it opens early 
tombs. And, on the contrary, it closes access to many 
honorable careers, closes hearts against kindness, the 
intelligence to strong and useful thought, and bars the 
road to social progress. 

With what sort of insanity must one be attacked to 
keep up the cult of such a goddess ! 

If there existed in the world a tyrant whose govern- 
ment would result in demeaning, soiling, making poor, 
ugly and poisoning, as well as brutifying his subjects, a 
tyrant whom one could not serve without reddening the 
nose, destroying the stomach, darkening thought, vow- 
ing his wife to misery, his children to epilepsy or tuber- 
culosis, by what just and universal indignation would 
not that monster be swept from the face of the earth? 

But the aperient remains in full possession of his 
reign. 

The more his misdeeds augment, the more the num- 
ber of his adepts become. 

It is right; all has an end. Thrones crumble, tern* 



138 THE VOICE OP NATURE. 

pies fall in ruins, the gods see their star pale and set. 
The aperient will not escape the common law. 

I rejoice in advance, and I drink to its death in a 
glass of real French wine. 



STREET SWEEPERS. 

One often hears said, "Oh, this Paris !" much as they 
might say, "Oh, this Sodom!" The exclamation is 
common to some of our own people and some foreign- 
ers. I want to say to them, "Let us distinguish. Of 
which Paris are you speaking? There are many of 
them." 

Those who think of Paris as a city of perdition, think 
of the small theatres, the cafe concerts, of Bullier, 
whose striking facade of porcelain insults at one and 
the same time the youth, the nation and art. They 
think of certain corners of the Boulevard, at all the 
vile underside of finance and politics, of the houses of 
evil fame, the gambling dens, and I know not what 
else. There is certainly enough there to make honest 
men indignant. This indignation curls close to hypoc- 
risy when those who manifest it are themselves clients 
of these stigmatized places. Do they not profit by their 
passage through Paris to go and see at close range what 
happens there? 

Two foreign D.D.'s, grave professors of the most 



THE VOICE OF NATURE. 139 

austere disciplines, met the other night, face to face, in 
some "Black Cat." 

"What! You here? What are you doing here?" 
"I am studying Parisian manners. And you?" 
My opinion is that there are already too many people 
studying those manners, and experts in what is falsely 
called Parisian manners. I am saturated with their 
cries : "Oh, this Paris !" If I wished to be malicious 
I would go and install myself in one of the little corners 
and take snapshots which would pass for commenta- 
ries. But that procedure is repugnant to me. Besides, 
the sins of others do not efface ours. My neighbor's 
wrong is mine because I believe in the human soli- 
darity. 

I permit myself only to propose another Paris for the 
study of investigators of the really curious in manners 
and not in scandals alone. Very well accustomed to 
nocturnal Paris, they have never thought that there is a 
matutinal existence in Paris, most admirable and un- 
known to those idlers who go to sleep at one o'clock 
and rise at noon. 

Among all those workers of Paris at daylight I dis- 
tinguish the sweepers. The sweeper seems invested 
with a sort of royalty whose sceptre is the broom, and 
which brings into still higher relief in my eyes the 
blade of philosophy inherent in the trade. The sweeper 
rises in the very earliest morning, in all weathers. At 
four o'clock he reigns in the city. Sweeping up so 
many things he has come to have serious features, like 
those who bend by habit over the problems of life. It 
is a high lesson to find oneself always facing the re- 



140 THE VOICE OF NATURE. 

mains of that which was the pleasure of the world and 
its joy. 

When the lights are put out and the places empty, 
the songs and toasts terminated, the sweeper comes. 

To him fall the broken glasses, the faded bouquets, 
all the withered vestiges of festivals and feasts. 

When sovereigns travel, or the presidents and their 
ministers, after the fanfares, and the deputations, the 
speeches and banquets, among the stripped trophies and 
the garlands whose flowers are falling, the word be- 
longs to the street sweeper. 

The day after elections, he walks on a litter of bulle- 
tins, and nothing equals the electoral fever if it is not 
the calm of this broom which pushes them along con- 
founded in the same dust, the names of the victors or 
the beaten. 

After the carnival, as after the riot, after the heads- 
man even, make way for the sweeper. According to 
the days he sweeps up many colored confetti, or washes 
away blood. 

At this trade, whosoever knows how to see and think 
becomes a sage. He has before his eyes documentary 
proofs of all that has taken place the night before. 

Nothing escapes him, not even the details of the 
kitchen. At the doorsteps they guess the bill of fare of 
the inhabitants. What a contrast between that which 
is swept from the faubourg Saint Antoine and the 
faubourg Saint Honore, or on the plains of Monceau ! 
The whole social question lies there. 

History is not found in newspapers alone, diplomatic 
correspondences or on the bronze or marble of monu- 



THE VOICE OF NATURE. 141 

ments. Among the most significant documents are 
those gleaned in the streets. What does that heavy cart 
carry, loaded with the detritus of our modern cities? 
Those who do not see with the mind's eye, will behold 
only broken bottles, stumps of vegetables, old hats and 
strips of lace mingled with a lobster's shell. I say to 
you that the cart carries our archives. It is full of that 
which accuses or justifies us, of that which threatens us 
or sustains us. 

Some persons predict the future by coffee grounds. 
A prophetic sweeper will predict it far more truly in 
turning over one of those famous boxes which bear the 
names of an ambassador. 

I stopped the other day before one of those curious 
columns covered with posters of some theatre, and I 
made some pessimistic reflections, suggested by tainted 
things which I will not transcribe. And, like a vulgar 
bourgeois, I was on the point of asking myself, "What 
are we coming to ?" when the sweeper came to the side- 
walk where I was standing. He put a key into the pad- 
lock fixed on the column and opened a door. Then in 
the interior I saw a complete panoply. Old brooms, 
new brooms, rakes and broom handles. On a nail hung 
a nozzle for sprinkling. And, hung side by side, near 
each other, like inseparable companions, a small lantern 
and a pair of gutter boots. 

At this sight my courage was animated anew. All is 
right, I thought. On the column is spread that which 
soils, and inside all that is needful to clean it is found. 
What an admirable symbol of our Parisian life, full of 
the most shocking contrasts ! Oh, this Paris ! It also 



142 THE VOICE OP NATURE. 

holds within itself the means of purification. And I 
said to myself as I looked at the honest brooms and the 
heavy boots : "When will come he who will be able to 
wear those boots, and with a triumphant sweep of his 
broom push all that impudent filth into the gutter?" 



EXTRA HORSES. 

In the times when the great highways had not yet 
been dethroned by the railroads, when coaches, dili- 
gences, relays and those good old inns now lost to us 
still existed, there were in these roads where accidents 
were so liable to happen a multitude of extra horses. 
A board affixed along the walk indicated the exact place 
where one must hitch them on or unhitch. And all day 
long and every day there was a defile of horses going 
towards the stable or their work. 

To-day this institution has disappeared from its 
primitive frame. The highways no longer have extra 
horses. It is rare that one now finds one in the rough- 
est provinces, like, for instance, that part of Lorraine 
backed by the Vosges, where the capricious roads give 
their measure after the extravagant cascades. 

"From the height of the jump, the depth of the falls." 

The extra horse has taken the road of the great cities, 
like many peasants. In Paris they are found by the rue 



THE VOICE OP NATURE. 14$ 

de Clichy, the rue des Martyrs, the boulevard Saint 
Michel, all the roads that climb the butte of Mont- 
martre, the hill of Sainte Genevieve, and no matter 
what other Parisian hill. Wherever you see a bridge 
with a back rounded up like that of a cat, everywhere 
where there is an improvised incline, an extra horse is 
in readiness. It is the deus ex machina which is to 
help the overloaded omnibus, or the tramway, too well 
filled in this hurried century, where they must not stay 
eternally on one spot, or the travellers get down and 
push the wheels according to the precedent set by La 
Fontaine. 

The extra horse is never alone, but is followed by a 
man called pilot, who is neither coachman nor groom, 
and for whom in his moments of respite he serves as 
bench, table or bed, unless he has his patient back en- 
gaged for a game of cards improvised by the others. 

When a heavy and overloaded wagon reaches the 
given point the driver prepares his whip, and the pilot 
does the same. 

These two whippers cross their fires to stimulate the 
auxiliary. As to the two regular horses they exploit 
the extra horse with the aim of sparing themselves a 
little. The destiny of an extra horse is hard. If he 
has a double ration of blows, perhaps he has had but 
half a ration of oats or care. The whole equipage 
counts on him, but he counts for very little himself. 
In general he is old, foundered, and badly curried. 
Through open wounds on his skin the raw flesh can be 
seen. It is an old creature, of little value. The 
knacker is waiting for him ; the butcher does not want 



144 THE VOICE OF NATURE. 

him. Under rain, wind and snow he goes, stiffening 
his worn-out legs to gain a little strength in them. Or 
perhaps he stands in the cold, half-frozen and half- 
asleep, drooping his head and waiting until a heavy 
blow awakes him. Melancholy end for a career of 
labor! If the extra horse thought or could speak in 
intelligible words what he suffers in his obscurity, what 
sombre pictures would his brute's soul portray ! 



Too many men resemble him, of whom he is the 
symbol : those who are at their forced labor, never at 
rest and never honored; stop-gaps called everywhere 
where there is a collar to pull, a cart to get out of the 
mire; men of heavy labors, which no regular work- 
man will undertake, and for whom they must be like a 
torn volume or spavined horse or broken vessel. Of 
these sacrificed beings there are to be found in all 
countries. One does not notice their presence ; they do 
not exist in a way. It never comes into the mind of any 
one that they could fear or hope for anything. Having 
nothing to expect, they have nothing to risk. One can 
ask everything of them, send them everywhere, expose 
them to everything. Fear of contagions, injuries, death 
or dishonor is only for settled people, whose existence 
has a price and a sweetness, who have the means of self- 
esteem. The others cannot pay for this luxury. 

Therefore let them do what no other will, and go 
where the most courageous would hesitate. When they 



THE VOICE OF NATURE. 145 

shall be dead of it, we will not have to thank them. 
Towards certain ones, one is delivered from all consid- 
eration, even gratitude. Their function is to pay for 
others, their reason for being. 



My soul is fascinated by these patient ones, on whom 
all these burdens fall. The more I fix my eyes upon the 
shadow where they vegetate, the more I distinguish a 
superhuman light. If they are nothing, what are we? 
what is life ? what the universe ? 

You make me think of those poor extra horses. That 
is why, of all the coursers of the city, you interest me 
the most. How many times you have made me dream ! 
In spite of myself, in seeing you, I think of the invisible 
eye which sees these mute pains, and the crushings of 
which no one takes notice. This eye is upon you, it 
sounds the depths of your martyrdom, and something 
tells me that even in your shadows He sees a breaking 
dawn. 



MORNING BELLS. 

I have a brother to ring for my early Mass, a valiant 
brother who never misses the hour. He has neither 
tonsure nor scapular, but two solid arms, with bronzed 



146 THE VOICE OF NATURE. 

muscles, and a large leathern apron. His bell is an 
anvil ; for he is a blacksmith, my brother. 

In early dawn, his hammer rings, rings — like a 
rooster's crowing, like the cry of a swallow. Half- 
awake, I hear him. The blows are firm and hard. It 
is not the hammer of a sleeper, working in spite of him- 
self, filled with regret for his bed. It is a hammer that 
sings at its work and gives you a desire for it. It says : 
"The pokers were sleeping in the ashes ; but the'bellows 
aroused them. The live embers have set fire to the coal. 
On the black hearth, in the closed chimney, the iron at 
a white heat glows like a star. Hammer it while it is 
hot. It is the hour to forge it. The horse awaits his 
shoes, the farmer his plough, the workman his tools, the 
soldier his sword. Let us forge, forge the implements 
of labor — the arms for future battles." 

What do you want of me, hammer, brother of 
clarions and drums ? There are appeals in your voice, 
rallying cries. I hear — you tell me of the holy work, 
of the great daily labor. 

You tell me that there is iron to beat into shape, arms 
to prepare. Now outcasts sleep, the men of pleasure 
beat a retreat, and with the shadows will disappear 
swarms of night walkers. This is the hour to come out 
for the labors of daylight, the hour to blow up the 
sparkling cinders which lie waiting to revive on the 
hearth by the cool breath of the bellows. 

The city is stirred in a vague murmur. The mason 
takes his trowel, the sweeper his broom, the thinker 
reknots his ideas of yesterday. Each one thinks of his 
function. Let us think of ours. There are stains to 



THE VOICE OF NATURE. \tf 

wash away, injuries to repair, tears to dry, shadows to 
dissipate, chains to break, wounded to lift up, innocents 
to defend, injustices to destroy, lies to confound. The 
old human misery, earlier than the birds, is awake long 
ere this. Already the slaves hear the whip of the op- 
pressor whistle in the air. The sick are suffering from 
their ailments, the afflicted with their sorrow. Agoniz- 
ing problems rise before the men who awaken. 

With all that the wicked to-day will not abstain from 
labor. Deceivers will build their ambushes, the cor- 
rupters will distil their poison, men of discord will come 
to enliven their quarrels, and fanatics launch their 
anathemas. 

Tartuffe will invent a new imposture, Basil will try 
an unpublished calumny. Men of prey will not lose one 
mouthful, nor the chatterboxes one word, nor the mon- 
grel dogs one bite. 

Shall we leave the field to them ? Up, belt and buckle 
ourselves, put on our aprons. Where are you, then, my 
faithful hammer? 

A voice often says: "Stay in bed. Your pains are 
useless. The evil is too formidable, the shadow too 
thick. Your pigmy work will not prevail against that 
of the giant. Stay in bed, sleep peacefully, and in this 
wicked world make the least bile possible; it will be 
neither worse nor better, and you will at least have 
gained a few quiet hours. That is so much won from 
the enemy." 

But, down there in the forge, the indefatigable ham- 
mer falls and rises. "Do not listen," it says, "to that 
voice which invites you to repose and disdain effort. It 



148 THE VOICE OF NATURE. 

is the voice of the tempter ; the deceptive voice of doubt 
and indifference, those eternal accomplices of all crimes. 
Strike the iron ! There is nothing else in the rising sun, 
the bursting bourgeon, the bounding torrent. Strike 
the iron, strike the iron ! God loves the valiant. The 
fiery spark which springs from the anvil lightens the 
morning of the sunniest days." 

Have I not a good brother to thus ring for me in the 
mornings ? 



LESSON OF LABOR. 

The Boulevard is very much animated. It is the 
middle of the day. An extraordinary movement reigns 
on pavement and sidewalk. In the midst of this go and 
come, two workmen were occupied in repairing the line 
of the tramway. They were safeguarded by two wheel- 
barrows placed one at each extremity of his field of 
labor. A small red flag warned drivers. 

And there, under the horses' feet, they soldered the 
rails, tightened the bolts, corrected the inequalities of 
the surface, relaid the worn-out parts of the wooden 
pavement. At every moment the horn of a car notified 
them that it was time to get out of the way. They took 
one step aside to let the car pass, and then resumed 
their labor immediately. 

They must not lose a moment. Between two wagons 



THE VOICE OF NATURE. 149 

which followed each other closely they found time to 
go and settle a stone or tighten a screw. If they wished 
to put their hands on a longer piece of work, it was a 
whole calculation. Otherwise they would obstruct the 
way and raise tempests among that noisy tribe of free- 
men. 

And, while the rails are free, and work is possible, 
they are forbidden to look right or left. For them pass- 
ers do not exist. Wagons circulate, coachmen vocifer- 
ate, horses run away, gamins and drunken men dispute 
— they never lift their heads. They appear to be deaf, 
but they must listen under pain of being crushed ; blind, 
yet with the eyes everywhere. Others, in working, 
throw their tools here and there, and toss the materials 
around apparently at hazard. These cannot make one 
movement that is not the result of the closest attention. 
If they place their materials carelessly, or let a shovel 
lie about, or a fragment of wood, just as soon there will 
be some grave accident, a horse injured, a wagon 
broken or upset. 

Singular conditions under which to work, are they 
not ? Not everybody could maintain them. Certain men 
need silence and calm to work. Others go still farther 
in their requirements. Before they will go to work 
everything around them must be in order. Every one 
must retire and nobody move in the house. They are a 
long time at their complicated installation. They ar- 
range their table, put in symmetry all the objects that 
garnish it, stop the clock whose tick-tack annoys them. 
After that and several other supplementary precautions, 
they begin. 



150 THE VOICE OF NATURE. 

I am not ignorant, however, of the importance of the 
frame where the traveller is placed. So many things 
have an influence on the mind. It is worth while to 
surround oneself with precautions when one wishes to 
achieve a work worth while. Silence — what a benefac- 
tor for the thinker, the artist ! and how sad is the lot of 
the worker delivered over to importunate ones, of one's 
labors upset by idlers on account of everything and 
nothing ! To be at the mercy of the door bell, what a 
slave ! 

In the bosom of conflicts being ceaselessly renewed, 
between the need of gathering oneself together and the 
brutal irruption of perturbing forces, one surprises 
oneself, wishing for a quiet cell, a few planks, a roof of 
brush, one window giving out on some clearing at the 
end of the woods, where one would see nobody and 
where one might once in a while see a sportive kid or 
hear a blackbird. There the hours would pass smooth- 
ly, without crack or tear, and one would have for the 
struggles of the spirit seeking to explain itself the 
patient aid of vast days, which nothing crosses nor 
divides. 

And, still I admire those pavers who toil in such con- 
fusion, always interrupted and always recommencing. 
Whosoever would fill his function must resemble them. 
For it is life to be hurried, troubled, disarranged by the 
enemy and to know how to work in spite of all. Per- 
haps even the individual needs this perpetual stimulant, 
and would wear out sooner in a too complete calm than 
in the ardent shock of beings and things. 

You dream an unknown temple. Who tells you that 



THE VOICE OF NATURE. 151 

soon, in place of working, you will not have one of 
those famous sleeps, of which old convents, and certain 
modern administrations, know the secret and have for 
symbol a shaved head lying on a pillow of a folio 
volume ? 

One must reach a point where one can gather oneself 
in a great scene of activity, to establish a solitude in 
the midst of activity. If you wait for everything to be 
in its place and in order, to get to work, as the chief of 
the orchestra waits to give the signal until they hush 
in the audience for every musician to be at his instru- 
ment, you will greatly risk the losing of your life while 
preparing to live. So many things league against useful 
labor— enemies from outside, noise, derangements, un- 
foreseen events both public and private. Enemies in- 
side, fears, passions, spiritual carelessness. You would 
at first that your enemies would keep silence, that your 
sorrows be appeased, your inquietudes be calmed, the 
problems of politics, philosophy and religion should be 
resolved. At that account when will you begin ? 

Go and learn from the obscure laborers accomplish- 
ing their duty in the midst of the least propitious con- 
ditions. If it does not please you to owe a lesson to 
these humble ones of the earth, ask the powerful ones, 
the statesmen obliged to juggle with the hours, to con- 
quer a little of the time due to public affairs, to snatch 
it strip by strip from solicitors of every kind and class, 
to ceaselessly interrupt the gravest labors and the most 
pressing ones for a banquet, a ceremony, or in fact to 
ignore that encumbering something pretentious and 
empty which they call a summons. 



152 THE VOICE OF NATURE. 



THE HAND. 



We admire the bird's wing and with reason ; its con- 
struction is amazing. And, besides, it represents so 
well one of the essential aspirations of our being, to go, 
to quit the narrow bounds where we vegetate, to spring 
off into free spaces. But, what is the wing of a bird 
compared to the hand of a man? As a marvel of 
mechanism, the hand surpasses that by a whole im- 
mensity. We must have admired many ingenious dis- 
coveries in the world of machines to measure by com- 
parison the restrained circle of their functions and the 
royal opulence of these filled by the hand of man. The 
number of combinations that our hands can execute is 
immeasurable. The hand is absolutely indispensable to 
the mind. If we had no hands the mind would be of 
little utility to us. And the hand gives its measure of 
usefulness, but under the direction of the mind. When 
it executes the orders of others it loses a great part of 
its capacity, and if we could ever make a mechanical 
hand imitate its perfection we would be able only to 
produce in that copy, even then so difficult, nothing but 
automatic movements, stamped with awkward stiff- 
ness. 

The hand has a physiognomy. Some say that it is an 
oracle, that its lines, its form and proportions form a 
part of an occult writing, unfolding the future to those 
who know how to decipher the secret. The art of 
reading that writing has attracted many persons, and 
made them commit many errors and injustices. How 



THE VOICE OF NATURE. 153 

shall we continue to give our confidence to a man in 
whose hand is written perfidy, robbery or murder ? 

While keeping a complete reserve before the preten- 
sions of any one's ability to read our character and our 
future in the hollow of our hand, I must admit that its 
physiognomy is very speaking. Painters have gained 
much from that fact. In many pictures hands have put 
extraordinary action. I am also much struck with all 
which they represent in life. 

Some hands are frightful. One would say they were 
made to strangle with. 

Long, emaciated with the old miser, they seem the 
incarnation of an insatiable and rapacious soul. Some, 
when they are laid in yours, seem as though they 
would avoid yours, have a serpentine movement, invit- 
ing you to distrust them. But how the grasp of a loyal 
hand comforts us ! Does it not seem that it gives us a 
salutary shock of force and courage ? 

The hand is soft, caressing, consoling. It binds 
wounds, wipes away tears. It is that also which gives. 
Jesus has defined the discreet charity in saying : "Let 
not your left hand know what the right hand doeth. ,, 

The hand is violent, aggressive. It strikes, seizes, 
mistreats. Transformed into a fist it becomes a sledge 
to kill with. David said : "Do not let me fall into the 
hands of men.' , And certainly one can explain this cry, 
thinking of all the things that hands can do of evil. The 
vulture's claws and those of a tiger are children's play- 
things in comparison. No instrument of torture has 
ever reached their height. Cold, pitiless, they seize 
their prey, crush it, and immolate it without a tremor. 



154 THE VOICE OF NATURE. 

It tears, wrinkles, bruises, breaks; covers itself with 
blood and is intoxicated with vengeance. 

Look at your hands ! See whether they are pure or 
impure, violent or beneficent, prompt to be lifted for a 
blow, or to be held out in pardon, whether they prefer 
to close over gifts given them or to open and give lib- 
erally. What usage do you make of those marvelous 
tools constructed by God? Your principal care, is it 
to keep them very white and virgin of all traces of 
labor ? 

Among all hands, I love and venerate those of the 
good old women who have toiled much. A long his- 
tory of active goodness is written on them. They speak 
of caresses given to little children, of long evenings 
passed in sewing, of cares bestowed lovingly on the 
sick. Hands wrinkled by age, hands so thin that the 
blue veins may be seen, let me honor you with a filial 
kiss. For you are the loved hands of our mothers, the 
image of the eternal tenderness, and when, trembling, 
you lay them on our heads in blessing, something has 
entered in you of the Hand that holds the worlds. 



DISCOURAGEMENT. 

It was on a misty day in a morose spring. My steps 
led me to a distant suburb where Paris becomes prov- 
ince. I was seeking there a man whom I knew to be sad 



THE VOICE OP NATURE. ^55 

and almost mentally deranged. These things happen 
to everybody. No one is sheltered from unhappy hours. 
Happily, they do not all come upon us at once, and he 
who4s on his feet and feeling very well can help his 
brother to rise again and continue on his way. Soon I 
had passed the threshold of a vast garden, humid still 
with the last shower. Green mosses covered the tree 
trunks ; the ground under my feet ceded with the pres- 
sure of them. Everywhere conquering bushes and 
victorious weeds. Besides, here and there was a trace 
of a little cultivation : a spade standing upright in the 
ground awaiting the gardener's hand. I found him 
occupied in cleaning the old tunnel where wild vines, 
honeysuckle and clematis fell in avalanches and bent 
the arches of the sodden wood. Under the tunnel there 
was a bench near a stone table, both garnished with 
moss. Perhaps long ago people had laughed and sung 
in this place, but it must have been long ago, and it 
seemed as if they would never recommence. 

The dull sky, this sombre, verdure which no ray of 
light pierced, chilled the heart. 

Observing my presence, the silent worker shook 
down the mass of dead leaves and dry branches which 
he was stirring around pell-mell and came to shake my 
hand. 

"Well, how goes everything?" 

"Nothing goes at all. It is finished, all finished. I 
am good for nothing any more. It would be better if I 
were out of the world." 

Sad words those. Sadder than them was the face 
of the speaker — pale, emaciated, framed in a black 



156 THB VOICE OP NATURE. 

beard making his pale features appear still paler. And 
the depths of his sunken eyes, eyes filled with shadow, 
was a lack of lustre like burned-out coal. He began to 
tell me his life, his labors — the life of a brave man and 
a valiant one ; a noble existence entirely upright, full of 
kindness and also a simple confidence in God, in spite 
of rude trials. Then had come days of sorrow, bad 
ones, disconcerting ones, of bitter experiences of the 
baseness, cowardice, deceptions of men, financial losses 
due to bad faith, heart-breaking law suits, and after all 
that inaction, the impossibility at a somewhat advanced 
age to find another employ. 

Above all, the inaction weighed upon him. He ate 
his own heart out night and day, delivered over as he 
was to the same recollections, and he had ended by be- 
coming completely demoralized. 

Nothing is more painful than to see a good man with 
a firm and worthy heart, reduced to this state. My 
sympathy touched him, my sympathetic words made 
him smile. It was as if I was trying to wind a watch 
whose mainspring was broken. And I went down with 
this torn and overweighted soul in the abysses of deso- 
lation where there is no light shining. 

At this moment we passed by a great bed of straw- 
berries. The vigorous roots loaded with blossoms 
seemed to promise an abundant harvest. Mechanically 
we stopped to look at them, and I complimented him on 
their fine appearance. 

"Just listen," he answered ; "you will scarcely believe 
it, but these vines I saved from the dung heap. My 
neighbor, the gardener, threw them on the pile. I asked 



THE VOICE OF NATURE. 157 

him to give them to me and see what they have be- 
come." 

"That is very interesting to know, and it must give 
you pleasure. To save something which is lost is 
always a comforting action. Yet, I cannot but think 
of you when I see these thrifty plants which you saved 
from a bunch of refuse. For, in fact, at this moment 
are you not about to throw yourself away? You could 
not bear to see a plant thrown away in which you 
thought there might be the germ of life. You take it, 
plant in good soil and watch it prosper with a tender 
heart, and you are ready to go and throw yourself in 
the place from whence you saved them ! Go on, go on ! 
We are worth more than a strawberry plant; never 
admit that you are good for nothing. Do you know 
what invisible, good and clement gardener may come 
and set dry our roots in a fertile soil, animate our with- 
ered leaves and ask us to bear fruit once more ? Let us 
rest at His disposal." 

He did not answer, but I thought that his large and 
gentle eyes, fixed on the green plants, took on a new 
lustre and that he applied the lesson for which he had 
unwittingly prepared the elements. 



LABORS FOR THE FUTURE. 

A gray fog enveloped the earth. Men and beasts 
slid through it like shadows. One vaguely saw the 
nearest roofs, the nearest trees. Beyond that — nothing ! 
Noise comes from this fog. One hears that something 



158 THE VOICE OF NATURE. 

is going on. But that something is uncertain, and the 
noise is deadened. The cries of men, the hoofs of 
horses, the wheels of different vehicles, the distant 
whistling of locomotives, come to me as though 
through cotton. No clear ray, no vibrating sound 
comes to save us from those lugubrious impressions. 
And, insinuating itself clear into our lungs and our 
blood, this flabby air, loaded with frigid vapors, seems 
to labor to lessen us. Will it be thus towards the end 
of the aging world, when the sun, slowly grown cold, 
will no longer be able to dissipate the darkness, and 
our anemic descendants will achieve their mournful 
existence in the bosom of conquering shadows? By 
what I feel in this end of November I can account for 
that which will then happen. How much better if, 
instead of this supreme miasma, the earth, bursting like 
a bomb, would end its last day in a grand display of 
fireworks ! 

I rolled over in my befogged mind these thoughts of 
certainly inferior quality, when my eyes fell upon the 
sign of my friend, the manufacturer of hats. What if 
I went up there ? The damp stone stairs to the work- 
room led me after two stories into a vast place full of 
light and activity. I expected to find everybody buried 
among felt and fur hats. Not a bit of it. It was on 
straw hats that they were working, yachting caps, shep- 
herdess hats, planters' hats, bathing hats, Charlottes, 
fresh and coquettish headgear made gay with ribbons 
and flowers. 

Still under the impressions of the street, this specta- 
cle shocked me like an anachronism. 



THE VOICE OF NATURE. 159' 

"You are rather late in getting off your summer hats. 
That is what you are doing, is it not?" 

"Pardon, sir ; we are preparing for next season. Our 

travellers are to leave in a few davs. It is in the midst 

*■ • 

of December that they go to show the models to the 
retail dealers for the coming summer. Would you like 
to see them ?" 

It seemed to me little in conformity with my present 
humor to lower my eyes to these futilities. But, one 
should never discourage any one in his work, and 
mechanically I set myself to pass in review all these 
fragile splendors. As I looked my interest awakened. 
Laughing faces appeared to my vision under these hats. 
Blue horizons, sunny beaches, flowery paths furnished 
the frames for the faces. I was soon under the charm, 
and each one of the graceful bows which took form 
under the agile fingers of the workers, took the charac- 
ter of a symbol of hope. "Go on," I said to myself in 
taking leave of these laborious friends, "there are still 
beautiful days in the future." 

In the street, on the imperial of a tramcar I saw a 
man holding between his knees a young tree with vig- 
orous roots. He came from the flower market doubt- 
less and was going to some place in the suburbs. Here 
was another who did not philosophize on the end of the 
world. Across this foggy and mournful hour he, too, 
saw warm to-morrows. He contemplated in advance 
the branches of his apple tree, the bunches of blossoms 
where swarms of bees buzzed happily, and the future in 
its warm light pierced the fog of the present. 

Oh, the comforting lessons! Peace be to all those 



160 THE VOICE OF NATURE. 

who offer us similar ones on our often dark roads. 
They are forms of confidence in God, all these labors 
for the future, in spite of the discouraging visage of 
the passing hour. Do not look on that face too often 
nor with a too anxious eye. Let us work, sow, plant, 
believe in the God of to-morrow. Let us deliver our 
souls to the strengthening suggestions of hope, and not 
to the demoralizing nightmares of pessimism. We can 
never hear too much of it. All thought that is too dark 
and sombre is stained with error. Truth is not dark. 
I admire those prophets who in the middle of the night 
predict the daylight, in the midst of death announce 
life. And you, also, I salute you, humble workers, who 
call us to ©rder by no matter what sign, what gesture, 
what labor done for the future, where thrifty hope has 
set its seal. 



ASSOCIATED MISERIES. 

In the sharp winds of autumn, under the fine rain 
which lashed the dead leaves, I saw on a street of old 
Caen a leafless shrub which was covered by a ragged 
umbrella without handle. And, struck by such a curi- 
ous assembly, I tried to reconstruct in my mind the 
scene of which this must have been the result. 

The morning of the day when this event took place 



THE VOICE OF NATURE. 1G1 

the sky was radiant. None could have anticipated such 
a bad ending. The trees over the promenade moved 
lightly in the breeze, and sent back and forth their 
accustomed salutes to old acquaintances. Near the 
veterans accustomed to storms, under the place left 
empty by the fall of a giant in the last wintry battle, a 
young willow spread its tender green twigs. It had 
the glorious air of a mite of a boy, showing in the sun- 
shine the splendors of his first pair of pantaloons. 

Poor little thing, they had planted it in a bad place, 
in the way of all the winds. There exist predestined 
spots, true cross-roads of storms, where the draughts 
rage; in their ferocity they engulf the place with tor- 
rents of rain or bury it in drifts of snow. When one 
occupies such a post one is marked for misery. 

Now, on the evening of this fine day, the inevitable 
storm arrived. In a twinkling it had robbed the willow 
of its fragile crown, sowing far and near its pretty 
leaves but lately opened. Near there a passer-by strug- 
gled against the hard wind, with a span new umbrella 
guaranteed unbreakable. In less time than it takes us 
to tell it, the frightful storm had turned it inside out, 
torn the silk from the ribs and left the man streaming 
with water, stupefied, holding the handle of an umbrella 
gripped in his hands, which was nothing now but a 
souvenir. - 

In payment for its loss the little tree found itself 
bonneted with a ragged protector, covering it and 
seeming to wish to shelter it. 

Deep game of hazard! This mutilated trunk shel- 



162 T HE VOICE OP NATURE. 

tered beneath a spoil of destiny had I know not what of 
touching grace which engraved itself in my memory. 
Two miseries met there, two wrecks joined to complete 
each other. The same wind that had injured the little 
tree and lacerated the umbrella had brought them 
together, giving them at once the value of a deep 
symbol. 

It is thus in this world that there are men whom 
misery brings together. Happy, they would never have 
known each other. But in falling their lives are min- 
gled. The ruins of their happiness, leaning together, 
end by forming, as among the ruins of some edifices, 
groupings more durable than were the primitive walls. 



THE SHOE. 

The Seine had raised waves ! In the cold wind of 
January, floods pressing on floods rolled their proud 
foam and seemed to intend to mount the piles of the 
bridges. For me, idle riverman, having seen in the 
middle of August the same flood so fast asleep that one 
could not have told whether it flowed towards Auteuil 
or Charenton, such a movement was a feast to the 
eyes. 

All right, thought I. With us also in the winter, 



f HE3 VOICfi OF NATURE. ±($ 

when there is much water, the old Heraclite might have 
placed his famous saying, "One never descends the 
same river twice," and this saying filled me with pleas- 
ure. 

But I was soon drawn out of that inoffensive reverie 
by the apparition of an object floating on the waters. 
It came from above, near the confines of Bercy — a black 
spot, growing larger every instant. And, when it was 
close enough to see it well, I found that it was an old 
shoe; but a shoe in some respects better than many 
new ones, for it was impervious to water. The proof 
was that it swam obstinately. It was in the position of 
a shoe on a man's foot, the heel turned towards Ivry, 
and the toe towards Saint Cloud, and it advanced on 
the water with a very sure manner. It mounted and 
descended according to the movement of the waves. 
Now it made large steps when in the yellow rolling 
waters of the Bateaux Parisiens, again jumping onto 
the innumerable crests of the short chopping waves. 

Really this shoe hypnotized me, and having no rea- 
son that day to go east or west, I set myself to walk 
along the quays in the same sense as the shoe. But I 
had not gone one hundred yards before there came to 
! me such a mass of ideas ; and I put to myself many 
contradictory questions. 

Is there anything as suggestive as the old shoes that 
one finds along the hedges of a country road? They 
recall the destinies of men on the changing roads of 
life. Where are they who wore them ? Are they asleep 
beneath the sod? Have they forever taken off their 



164 THE VOICE OF NATURE. 

pilgrim's sandals, or do they use other soles on other 
roads ? 

Where may this shoe not have walked? What has 
become of his mate? For shoes always go in twos, 
unless indeed they form a pendant to a wooden leg. 
Has it beaten the pavements of cities, turned furrows 
behind harrow and plow, or hurtled down the old oaks 
and made the dead leaves rustle in the distant clear- 
ings? 

Perhaps, I said, this shoe on the foot of some brave 
man has faced the enemy's fire or climbed in the as- 
sault. 

Or maybe it took service on the foot of a deserter, 
who lost it in his wild race. For, in fact, there are 
shoes and shoes. Is it proved to me that that shoe 
belonged to an honest man and not to one of those 
chevaliers of industry, a burglar, a criminal perhaps, 
having left its imprint in some place suspected by the 
judge of instruction? 

No matter ; it is now on its way to where the shoes 
of other days have gone, but by a royal road. It pays 
its passage through Paris, and in passing Notre Dame 
and the Louvre it salutes them. This retired one of 
the great whirlpool of life makes me attentive to its 
fellows — the shoes of the day. On the quays, on the 
bridges, across the Parisian immensity, on the feet of 
busy people, I saw them walking in all senses : run to 
work, or pleasure ; jump along the scholar's road ; slip 
behind the wings of chicanery or politics ; groan in the 
hall of the Pas Perdues, in the mournful ante-chambers 
where the solicitors watch for the bureaucrat ; stumble 



THE VOICE OF NATURE. ][g5 

over orange peels; follow behind a sombre hearse to 
the cemetery, with a measured step. 

And I cannot prevent myself from asking this ques- 
tion, "What will remain of all its uneasy travels ?" The 
answer I find in the unmated shoe, philosopher without 
knowing it, tanned by all the winds. It told me, "The 
same destiny awaits them. They may fight against it 
with swiftness and rank ; their end is the same. Aristo- 
cratic red heels, gold-embroidered satin slippers, 
buskins or brodekins, luxurious bottines, and iron-shod 
overshoes, the pope's slippers, and emperor's boots — 
all go the same road, driven by an invisible and power- 
ful hand." 

These reflections made me melancholy. Over- 
whelmed by the burden of human vanities, and the ster- 
ile agitations where we lose our lives, I remained a 
long time with my elbows on the parapet, following the 
shoe still floating down the river. It seemed to be full 
of spirit as though it dreamed of some dainty sabot 
accustomed to the flowery paths of Normandy, which 
it would soon rejoin between the green banks where 
the young colts bound. And, besides, it seemed abso- 
lutely indifferent to all that I might think of it. 

It was, however, all that I wished to retain of it. In 
these times of passions and calumnies no one is above 
suspicion; each one anxiously wonders what "they" 
think of him, say or write about him. Would it not be 
a benefit to be able to pass through this life without 
fretting over the opinion of people, any more than the 
stoical old shoe of the page which I have consecrated 
to it? 



166 THE VOICE OF NATURE. 



WISHES. 

What good are they ? One would really be embar- 
rassed to say. Their vanity makes them seem sus- 
picious to some, and disagreeable to others. I know 
some persons who are really annoyed and shocked by 
them. And this sentiment does not surprise me. Too 
many good reasons justify it. 

Nothing can equal the banality of certain superficial 
and careless wishes. They do not interest him who 
receives them nor him who proffers them. Many are the 
awkwardly timed wishes which have the effect of a 
clumsy foot set upon a tender corn. There are some 
malicious ones which have the air of mocking you; 
others so tempestuous that they arouse all your bad 
humor, excite your chagrin. Add to them the stupid, 
hypocritical and interested wishes. Is there not more 
than enough to disgust us? 

But, even if they are altogether sincere, intelligent, 
benevolent, imprinted with an exquisite tact, their lack 
of power is notorious. From what danger have they 
preserved our friends? What benefits have they pro- 
cured ? Does any one believe in their influence ? 

So, then, you are going to propose their suppression ? 

No, indeed ! I should be far from doing that. 

And why? 

Because, and that reason will suffice, we would try 
in vain to extirpate them. So long as there are men, 
they will form wishes. We have not before us in this 
a simple conventionality alone, but one of the forms of 



THE VOICE OF NATURE. 167 

mind. To desire, hope, wish, all that is human, like 
tears and laughter. We shall never be able to stifle 
laughter, nor ever dry up the source of tears. Nor will 
the flood of wishes ever cease to flow. 

But, if I had the means of stopping them, I would 
not do it. A legion of people abuse the good wish: 
does that prove that it is evil ? If we should be obliged 
to suppress everything that gives a chance for abuse, 
nothing would remain. Creation would be entirely de- 
stroyed. 

The uselessness of good wishes compromises them 
still more in my eyes. But I can recall treasures re- 
jected, thrown away, because they were considered use- 
less. Everything which has no tangible aim is taxed 
as useless, which has no value in figures ; all which 
costs and brings nothing. The greater part of all beau- 
tiful and noble things may be, by this proceeding, as- 
similated with evil futilities. Now, if it is wise to sim- 
plify existence, to retrench new generations, we must 
not, however, allow ourselves to sacrifice the grace and 
charm of life under the pretence that it is useless. What 
good, for instance, are the flowers? What folly to 
spend money for that which does not nourish or clothe 
us ! And yet, do we deprive ourselves of them ? 

In the kitchen a bunch of turnips or asparagus is 
preferable to a bunch of roses. But should the rose be 
banished from the city on that account ? Has it not its 
own place to fill as well ? 

The uselessness of wishes is a little like that of 
flowers. For nothing in the world would I deprive 
myself of them. 



1(5£ THE VOICE OF NATURE. 

What good does it do to say "Bon voyage"? or even 
"Good-night"? 

That does not render the days finer, voyages less dan- 
gerous, separation less sad, and nights more tranquil. 
Shall we then renounce saluting each other altogether ? 

No, the salute is a fraternal act, a witness of benevo- 
lence. One can put a world of comforting sentiments 
into a cordial "Good-morning." And, though many men 
salute as parrots speak, I shall never cease to find 
that salutation one of the highest manifestations of 
human sociability. Now, if I guard the venerable cus- 
tom of saying "Good-morning," why deprive me of the 
right to say "Happy New Year" ? Even if it is but a 
rather more impressive "Good-morning," it preserves 
an incontestable value. But the wish is a sign of hope 
as well, an affirmation of a better future. 

In spite of contrary events and obscurities of life, to 
continue to mutually wish a good and happy New Year, 
is to confirm the inalienable right to a hope and a better 
future. A wish made in good faith and with all one's 
heart is an act of faith. Humanity needs to believe and 
to hope. If it still lives it is because it believes in life. 
A blind confidence sustains it. Is it too much to give 
to that general confidence an occasion to manifest itself 
once a year? I do not think so. On account of that 
reason, in spite of all unpleasant abuses, I am for the 
old habit of wishing. 

Friend reader, whoever you may be, apprentice or 
veteran of existence, favored by happiness or visited by 
pains, anxious about the morrow or assured, on the 
threshold of two vears, to see even in two centuries, 



THE VOICE OF NATURE. 169 

whether you make your calculations with pope or em- 
peror, I wish that God will keep your heart in peace. 



GOOD WILL. 

While the yule-tide log is burning on the hearth, let 
me speak of a blessing at once precious and rare — good 
will. 

It is at first a sort of happy brightness, disposing us 
to undertake great tasks. There are persons cold and 
indifferent whom nothing warms or moves. Their own 
inertia stops them the moment when you cease to push 
them. You call them, but they do not come. You 
prick them, but they do not bleed. Stubborn, obstinate 
souls, despair of men of action, of all those who have 
the inward order obliging them to propagate ideas, to 
serve causes, to recruit defenders of the right, witnesses 
of truth, adversaries of violence, saviors to the 
wretched. 

The man of good will is the exact contrary — he is 
ready. Let us say that he is under continual steam, 
and asks but a sign, asks but to fly to his work. 

Others have their hours. They receive appeals at 
certain, moments. A notice is given to duty to come 
when it is their day. Let it resign itself if necessary to 



170 THE VOICE OF NATURE. 

"make ante-chamber," to allow place to a series of con- 
ventionalities, the interests and other solicitors of 
human attention. But do not claim them outside of the 
time agreed upon. Monsieur has gone out and Madame 
is reposing and is "not at home" to any one. 

Good will has no hour. Duty calls ; "Here am I," he 
answers. The seasons or the direction of the wind do 
not affect him. Let the trumpet sound and the tocsin 
ring, and he is on his feet. In case of need he will have 
the courage to jump out of his bed at two o'clock in the 
morning. 

For some, to have made efforts once, is a motive to 
forever after abstain from making others. They have 
tried to act, it would seem, only to convince themselves 
that there is really nothing to do, so scrupulous you 
will find them in retaining the remembrance of that 
unfruitful action. They say, "Oh, we know that. It is 
an impossible work ; nothing can ever come of it, so to 
what end ?" 

The man of good will has for his device, "Recom- 
mence." He does not count his failures, he forgets the 
time lost. In his eyes, the reasons he furnishes to 
abandon the game can but be bad. The good ones are 
summed up in this manner, "Return to the charge." 

Few obstacles resist men of good will at the end. 

Thanks to them, the world goes on. They are the 

coach-horses; the others are the spatters of mud on 

the coach ; while still others are the spokes in the 

wheels. 

******** 

Another form of good will is benevolence. 



THE VOICE OF NATURE. \^\ 

It says in speaking of its neighbor : 

"Whoever you are I wish you well in advance, and I 
wish to think of you. Nothing, not even your worst 
proceedings, your worst conduct, will make me wish 
you evil. The more you do, the more I ought to regret 
it, and wish that it had been differently. To offer you 
the means of returning to the good, I will resign myself 
before the evidence only, in thinking evil of you, but 
give you in my mind the benefit of all doubts." 

Benevolence is a fixed determination. It is not in- 
spired by experience. It precedes it. It is premedita- 
tion under its happy, I might almost say sublime form. 
I find it all the more admirable and more worthy of 
love, that it is so rarely seen. Benevolence makes itself 
rare, like those corners of the sky in foggy days. We 
have become befogged ourselves. Our fellow being 
seen through the atmosphere of heavy vapor which 
envelops us, appears dull and suspicious. We attribute 
to him the blackest designs, horrible intentions. He is 
capable of everything. He is a liar, impure, thief, mur- 
derer. He is a wolf, an ape, a goat and a donkey in 
addition. Turpitude, cruelty, imbecility are the words 
which best paint him. 

Are you very sure of it ? 

We do not deny the evil, it is but too evident. But 
why aggrandize it by our practices and our imagina- 
tions ? W 7 hat interest have you to reciprocally attribute 
all the tarnishings of the heart and mind ? I am greatly 
struck by the tranquillity with which we accustom our- 
selves to treat as rabble a throng of unknown persons. 
At the present moment half humanity willingly believes 



172 THE VOICE OF NATURE. 

the other half rotten. Do you find that gay, to be the 
other half of a decomposed body ? 

Not I. I demand more proofs to believe in the im- 
posture of a man than to believe in his loyalty. Dis- 
trust malevolence. It is a bad counsellor. It makes us 
inter men who are not dead, and drag honorable citi- 
zens to execution. A little benevolence, if you please, 
and of withholding in your judgments. Let us give 
humanity credit. Would it not. also be giving credit 
to God, deeply interested in our affairs? Between us, 
that is the point that reassures me. With such a helper 
there is no need of failure. 

Can you not suppose that people may deceive them- 
selves in good faith? Let us go further, admit even 
that in good faith some one may speak evil of us. Min- 
gle with the furious wine of our passions, of our sec- 
tarian bitternesses, a few drops of good sense and good 
will. Public life will not be any the worse for it. 

That is my dream, while, symbol of a year which 
throws its last flashes, the yule log falls in cinders on 
the hearth. 



PILGRIMAGE. 

I wished to see again the cool valleys where I played 
some forty years ago. Here I am. By the embalmed 
solitude of the prairies, I follow a little sinuous path, 



THE VOICE OP NATURE. 173 

the same as of old. The brook descends the same in- 
cline under the willows. The daisies and the butter- 
cups reflect their images in it, and the furtive trout 
hides from view. The world in this place made itself 
graceful and small. The Vosges have become low hills. 
Between their undulations crowned with pines or 
beeches, wound the valleys with the narrow horizons. 
The blackbirds answered back and forth from one 
tiny point to another. A temperate light enveloped 
everything. The heart grows peaceful, and the eyes 
repose themselves. In the peace of this nature un- 
troubled by any cry, where no trace of struggle 
showed, I felt like a traveller welcomed home by loved 
ones. And slowly I entered the sanctuary of remem- 
brance. The long years, the changeable life, the stages 
sad or happy, made far away in uneasy cities, all that 
drew back, effaced itself, and took something of the 
character of a dream. I am not very sure that it is 
myself, he whom they know back there, in the society 
of men, and who has his name and his work, his place 
marked on the field of ardent battles. That which ap- 
pears clear to me, at the present hour, is the past, the 
laughing childhood. Here is the frame intact. Was it 
not you, old beech-tree, under which I gathered beech- 
nuts with blue-eyed comrades, with hair like corn silk, 
covered with myrtles, which are growing on your 
knotty roots ? What do I see ? Why, there are my com- 
panions, those, and I know them well, and am surprised 
at myself not to have been seated ere this among them. 
Why, then, do they look at me with open mouths, as 
they look at a stranger ? Have they forgotten that to- 



174 *&& VOICE OF NATUHE5. 

gether, the days when we had shoes on, we let ourselves 
slide down the incline of that rock ? The traces of our 
joyous sliding place are there still. 



But, let us follow the valley. It leads to the village. 
-Soon at the turn of the path houses will appear, small, 
pretty houses of poor people, but picturesque enough to 
eat. Already I hear the cocks crow. We are then 
going to meet again, dear little corner of the world, 
where I lived the serene years which knew no evil, nor 
death, nor regret for the past, nor anguish for the 
future. We will see the thresholds of the rustic doors, 
and, above all, the house, the old dwelling, the presby- 
ter and his big garden, and his terrace where on the 
beautiful summer nights I hied myself to worship the 
moon. 

But, what is that white smoke that rises from the 
forest in the direction of the village ? Could it be fire ? 
A strident whistle soon settled my mind on the origin 
of it, and at the same time dragged me from my dream. 
The echo repeated it ten times as though to say, "Yes, 
that is true ; it is very true." The horrible thing was ac- 
complished, the solitude was deflowered; there was a 
railroad now. 

I hastened, I came out into the principal valley and 
before my astonished eyes passed, puffing, blowing out 
its thick black smoke, a freight train. 

What an awakening ! On the road I accosted an old 
peasant and asked him where the old presbytery was, 



THE VOICE OP NATURE. ijg 

for I seemed lost. With his finger he pointed to the 
mountain. 

"But it used to be in the valley." 

"Yes, sir, the old one, but they tore it down. That 
declivity that you see was the place." 

"And the garden?" 

"The*garden ? It is that place filled with rough stones 
and logs." 

"So nothing remains of the old pastor's house?" 

"No, all has disappeared." 

At this minute arrived a passenger train. It stopped 
a moment. I heard the whistle of the conductor, then 
employes cried : 

"Fertig, abfahren." 

"Finished, en route !" That was just the device that 
suited the hour. Taking my way back again mechani- 
cally, I remained for a long time under the obsession 
of those brief and hard words, "Fertig, abfahren." 

All is not finished, however. For the future to see 
you, paternal home, I will close my eyes, and I will find 
your image, faithful and indelible, at the bottom of my 
child's heart. 



IMPRESSIONS OF ALL SAINTS' DAY. 

In these feverish times, when the dead are quickly 
forgotten, I love this Day of All Saints. It is the day of 
the conquered, the forgotten, the day of the absent. It 



176 THE VOICE OF NATURE. 

pleases me to see the throngs moving silently, loaded 
with chrysanthemums and wreaths of immortelles. 
What is the religious belief of all these pilgrims to the 
cemeteries? The answer to that question is not possi- 
ble. Do we know what passes in the bottom of hearts ? 
There are in each of us mysterious places which God 
alone knows. To bring our judgments there would be 
the height of temerity and indiscretion. 

I do not know whether those who weep there weep 
hopelessly. They carry their pious homages to pure 
memories. Do they dare, or not, lift their eyes towards 
the immortal light ? I do not know. But their sorrow 
is holy, their respect touches and moves me. Whether 
they know it or not, they lift themselves, the one and 
the other, above the present moment, and what they do 
reposes the soul from the noisy train, the coarse and 
foolish ordinary joys, cuts on the grand mixture of 
inferior interests with advantage. To weep for the 
dead is to keep oneself on the threshold of eternal 
things; it is to belong, if only for an hour, to those 
whom a brutal utilitarianism has ruled. To honor the 
dead, the conquered ones of life, to dedicate our flowers 
to the forgotten ones, is to accomplish an act of spiritual 
worth. 

In each Parisian cemetery there is an anonymous 
monument. There those who have no tombs to go to, 
carry their flowers, offer their prayers or their tears. 
They remember the dead that were lost at sea, that fire 
has claimed, so that nothing of them remained, not even 
a handful of ashes to gather in an urn. There they go 
to think of soldiers, fallen before the enemy, buried in 



THE VOICE OF NATURE. 177 

foreign countries, in the colonies, children dead for 
their mother country, and whose bodies were never re- 
covered. These anonymous monuments, where stran- 
gers elbow each other loaded under the same burden of 
flowers, these stones under which no one sleeps, remind 
us of the altar to the Unknown God, of whom St. Paul 
spoke to the Athenians. Salute them in passing. Give 
a prayer to these disappeared ones, to those who 
have died alone, far away, without a good-bye, without 
sepulture, or last honors. After seeing these imper- 
sonal monuments of pious remembrance direct your 
steps towards the corner of the excommunicated ones. 
Our law is very strict, but it exists always, and morally 
it occupies more space than one might think. 

In other times in this accursed place, infamous 
ground which prayer never sanctified, lie the suicides, 
those executed for crimes, and most criminal of all — 
the heretics. No corner of the earth, no place of last 
repose gives so much to reflect upon as that. The 
contemporaries have always turned their heads away 
from them. It is cold there and weeds and thistles 
have invaded it. It has the lugubrious air of haunted 
places. For the just of to-day, the man of correct con- 
duct, of official thought, of beliefs controlled and ap- 
proved, in this corner is the ante-chamber of hell. Of 
those who lie there no one must say, "Happy the dead 
who die in the Lord." 

Sit down, however, in this corner, my brother passer- 
by, and think a minute. Stir their ashes mentally. 

Among these murderers, these infamous ones, the 
reprimanded of human justice, you will find there the 



178 THE VOICE OP NATURE. 

champions of the future, prophets, martyrs and noble 
victims of intolerance and fanaticism. If you are the 
son of Huguenots, you will have no trouble in finding 
there your coreligionists, the very ancestors of your 
family perhaps. If you are a philosopher you will find 
there many colleagues. If you are a Christian-, remem- 
ber that Christ was put on the cross between two 
thieves. Thus always, even to the tomb, the world has 
mingled the best and the worst. That should not oblige 
us to honor only the pure memories, misunderstood by 
contemporaries. The lesson should bear upon the 
present. 

Human justice is essentially fallible. It makes the 
real crimes to appear innocent, and taxes the crimi- 
nal with acts, thoughts and beliefs inspired by jus- 
tice and truth themselves. Who knows if, among the 
category of men regarded in the present day with 
severity, there do not exist beings more just than their 
judges, better than their epoch, and whose condemna- 
tion will not fall back on our heads, in posterity ? In the 
tombs that are well cared for, honored, surrounded by 
benedictions, and covered with signs of respect, might 
there not be found thieves, murderers and impious 
ones ? Among those who have been hanged, those guil- 
lotined, galley slaves dead in their chains and branded 
with hot iron, there may be, are, heroes and saints. No 
one has the right to forget it. 

And to preserve the soul from that dust of prejudice 
which is falling on it, staining it, the thoughtless cus- 
toms, the current opinions, the unjust and blind routine, 
it is good to go sometimes, far from the conflicts and 



THE VOICE OP NATURE. 179 

the passions of the day, and meditate and pray among 
those who sleep. The dumb tomb gives us lessons that 
the most eloquent mouth could not equal. 



PAQUERETTE— EASTER DAISY. 

TO MY SON PIERRE. 

In the young verdure of the sunny fields, little daisy, 
why is it that your smile does me so much good? 
Scarcely opened at the last dawn, we met for the first 
time. Why, then, fresh and fragile adornment of the 
spring fields, have I been able to find in you that famil- 
iar air of loved old faces ? 

You remind me of your flourishing little sisters that 
bloomed under my childish feet, and that I went to 
gather with gay companions of my age. Delicate Eas- 
ter daisies, with snowy crowns, their sight made our 
eyes shine, they filled our little hands. Of those eyes 
how many sleep in the tomb, of those busy hands how 
many are folded away forever over motionless hearts. 

Do you remember, little Paquerette, Easter daisy? 
You do remember ; I feel it. The same soul is in you 
which shone on the brows of your sisters, the same 
hand, little ephemeral star, lighted you, and in your 
frail beauty wove an eternal thought. 



180 THE VOICE OF NATURE. 

Oh, the beautiful Easters of those days ! A super- 
natural light enveloped the earth, bathing the forests, 
and vibrated through the white splendors of the blos- 
soming cherry trees. It was not the light of other 
days, the passing light of a material sun ; it was a mys- 
terious and celestial clearness, pure reflection of the 
imperishable world. 

The birds sang "He is risen, He is risen !" the newly 
opened buds on the trees whispered between them. A 
whole chime of tiny bells resounded across the fields of 
lilies-of-the-valley, and the good news ran and mur- 
mured in the crystal of the brooks. Alone, falling 
under the moss of years, the old cross at the beginning 
of the path persisted, in all this glory of Eastertide, in 
keeping the sadness of Good Friday. So then, on its 
venerable arms we hung garlands that all might be in 
unison. 

Happy times. They are still. You recall them, little 
Easter daisy? Is it not made like you, that which is 
always reborn ? Thank you for saying it. We will not 
let pass this beautiful, this royal Easter day, without 
having opened our hearts to the light, as the field flow- 
ers open in the morning. See, here are two thousand 
years that, in the shadow as we are, millions of hearts 
have been warmed at this fire. It is enriched in burn- 
ing, its power has grown with the great good that it 
does. Easter! Without the things enclosed in that 
word, how desolate would be the earth ! 

We were slaves of that sombre queen called death. 
All life, all thought, all works belonged to her. A black 
grave was dug beneath the feet of hope. There was no 



THE VOICE OP NATURE. 1§1 

to-morrow for crushed innocence, no late and repairing 
day for expiring justice. Nothingness said to me : "I 
am waiting for you. All paths lead to me. Your tears 
and your songs, your prayers and your faith, will all 
finish in the dust." And we went dumbly on under 
the cloud heavy with fatality. 

On this stifling world, one saving hand is laid, hand 
of man in whom circulated the power of God. It con- 
tested for empire with nothingness, with death for its 
prey ; it broke the band of lead that encircled the human 
soul, and made a crevice in the illimitable horizon. 
Since then the shadow has diminished in the world. 
Night has drawn back. It will never regain the lost 
ground. 

Do not allow ourselves to be imposed upon by the 
foggy hour where we are now passing. It proves one 
thing : certain fashions of living diminish hope and dry 
up our faith. There is no Easter for those who sow in 
the wind, those whose lives are passed in burying them- 
selves under their vanities, the hatreds and stains, in 
being their own grave-diggers. Perhaps those are not 
wrong in thinking that they will utterly perish, for they 
have renounced all that which is immortal. But these 
mournful ideas grow like morbid flowers on the re- 
mains of our corrupted lives. The pure air and healthy 
ground, the ground of the Gospels, knows them not. 

To take part in the message of Easter, we must have 
borne our cross, have tried to follow the footsteps of 
Jesus, who sheds the light. Without cross, without 
sacrifice, without repentance, without the- renouncing of 
all perishable things, there is no Easter. Easter is the 



182 THE VOICE OF NATURE. 

crown of victory, but it must be conquered. Before 
crown there is the battle, abnegations, dark places 
where one doubts the road, abysses to cross where faith 
only sees clear. Before that pure gold of imperishable 
life can appear to our eyes, it is necessary to pass 
through that purifying crucible. 

The Prince of Life said to us : "Look at the flowers 
of the field." Easter daisy, I looked at you, and you 
spoke to me of Him. You told me : "The things which 
cause us so much suffering will end; one day the 
abysses will be filled, wounds healed, tears effaced. 
There will be Easters at the end of our Calvaries, Eas- 
ters more beautiful still than those radiant days of 
childhood where you thought to find in the morning 
dew traces of the One who had risen." 



THE END. 



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The following is the Table of Contents : Women Who Figkt 
the Battle of Life Alone ; Worldly Marriages ; Broken Prom- 
ises of Marriage ; Dominion of Fashion ; The Veil of Modesty ; 
Wifely Ambitions; Good and Bad; Woman's Happiness— 
What Can and What Cannot Make a Woman Happy; The 
Grandmother ; Woman's Opportunity ; The Queen of Home : 
Parental Blunders; Christ the Song. Paper cover, 25 cents; 
cloth, 75 cents. 

1 



TWENTY-FIVE SERMONS ON THE HOLY LAND. 

By Rev. T. De TVitt Talmage, D.D. No series of sermons 

ever delivered by this famous preacher has created such 

a widespread and intense interest as this. These sermons 

describe with vivid interest the scenes, incidents and 

many various experiences met with in the Holy Land, the 

land in which people are now more interested than ever 

before. 

Among the hundreds of thousands of people who have read 

the utterances of this wonderfully successful preacher there 

are none but will be glad to have this book. 

The following is the Table of Conten ,s : Eve of Departure ; I 
must also see Rome ; A Mediterranean Voyage , Paul's Mission 
iu Athens ; Life and Death of Dorcas ; The Glory of Solomon's 
Reign ; Peace, be Still ; The Marriage Feast ; Christmas Eve 
in the Holy Land ; The Joyful Surprise ; How a King's Life 
was Saved ; The Phillipian Earthquake ; What is in a Name ; 
The Half was not Told me ; I "Went up to Jerusalem ; On the 
Housetop in Jerusalem ; The Journey to Jericho ; He Toucheth 
the Hills and they Smoke; Solomon in all His Glory; The 
Journey to Bethel ; Incidents in Palestine ; Among the Holy 
Hills ; Our Sail on Lake Galilee ; On to Damascus ; Across 
Mount Lebanon. Paper cover, 25 cents ; cloth, 71 cents. 

THE BATTLE FOR BREAD. 

This book contains a series of sermons by Rev. T. De Witt 
Talmage, D.D., the greatest of living preachers. Every 
workingman and those . ho employ them should read this 
book, and thus be informed of the real solution of the 
question of the relations of Labor and Capital. 
The following is the Table of Contents : The Labor Ques- 
tion; The Treatment of Employes; Hardships of Working- 
men ; Monopoly and Communism ; The Worst Foe of Labor; 
Black Servants of the Sky. Paper cover, 25 cents; cloth, 
75 cents. 

LIFE OF REV. T. DE WITT TALMAGE, D.D. 

By Rev. John Lobb. Everyone interested in reading Tal- 
mage's Sermons will be glad to read the history of his lite 
as written by his friend, Mr. Lobb. 
The following is the Table of Contents • Birth and Parent- 
age; His Boyhood; Entering the Ministry; He Visits Engp 



land; His Eeturn to America; History of the Brooklyn Taber- 
nacle ; The New Tabernacle ; Midnight Explorations ; Auto- 
biographical Sermon; The Trial of Dr. Talmage; Another 
Visit to Europe ; His Return and Welcome Home ; Phreno- 
logical Description of Dr. Talmage. Paper cover, 25 cents. 

WHY I AM WHAT I AM. 

A book you should read.— Why I Ana What I Am. 
Why I am a Baptist, Rev. R. S. McArthur, D.D. ; Why I am 
a Presbyterian, Rev. Charles Seymour Robinson, D.D. ; Why 
I am a Methodist, Rev. G. H. McGrew ; Why I am an Episco- 
palian, Rev. William R. Huntington, D.D. ; Why I am a 
Catholic ; Rev. Walter Elliott, C.S.P. ; Why I am a Congrega- 
tionalism Rev. Lyman Abbott, D.D. ; Why I am a New- 
Churchman, Rev. S. S. Seward ; Why I am a Universalist, 
Rev. Chas. H. Eaton; Why I am a Unitarian, Rev. John 
White Chad wick ; Why I am a Jew ; Rev. Dr. Gustav Gott- 
heil ; Why I am a Lutheran, Rev. G. F. Krotel, D.D. ; Why I 
am a Friend, John J. Cornell ; Why I am a Disciple ; Rev. B. 
B. Tyler ; Why I am a Seventh-Day Baptist, Rev. A. H. Lewis. 

The CJiristian Union says of it : 
" In * Why I Am What I Am ' fourteen representatives of different religious de- 
nominations give the reasons for their peculiar faith. The representative men have 
been well chosen ; and the denominations Include the Roman Catholic at one ex- 
treme and the Jew at the other. We know of no volume which in so compact a form 
affords so good material for a study of denominational peculiarities, their nature 
and the reasons for them." 

12m o, 160 pages, paper cover. Price, 25 cents. Mailed to 
any address, postpaid, on receipt of price. 

ROYAL GEMS. 

We desire to call your attention to the new edition, printed 
from new plates of the five best books overwritten by 
Frances Ridley Havergal, which we have just issued in 
one volume under the title " Royal Gems," and contain- 
ing 340 pages. 
1. The Royal Invitation : Or, Daily Thoughts on Coming to 
Christ ; 2. Royal Commandments : Or, Morning Thoughts for 
the King's Servants ; 3. Royal Bounty : Or, Evening Thoughts 
for the King's Guests ; 4. My King : Or, Daily Thoughts for 
the King's Children ; 5. Kept for the Master's Use. 

This volume is set up from new, large type, and is printed 
on handsome super-calendered paper, with a portrait of Miss 



Havergal. The lowest price at which these separate books 
have been sold is 20 cents each for the paper and 40 cents each 
for the cloth binding. This new edition of the five books ia 
one is offered to you for 25 cents in paper cover, or 75 cents 
for the cloth bound book. 

MOODY'S SERMONS. 

We desire to announce that we have just issued two books, 
one entitled Moody's New Sermons and the other Moody's 
Latest Sermons, containing Mr. Moody's most recent ser- 
mons. The name and fame of Mr. Moody as the most 
successful evangelist of the age will create a large demand 
for these books containing his most recent utterances. 
Moody's New Sermons.— Contents: The "Work of the Holy 
Spirit ; God's Service and the Holy Spirit ; Elements of True 
Prayer ; " Thy Will Not Mine Be Done " ; Trust in God Brings 
Perfect Peace ; Watch, Fight and Pray ; The Influence of the 
Individual; That "Elder Brother"; Obedience to God's 
Commands; " No Boom for Christ." Paper Cover, 25 cents; 
cloth, 75 cents. 

Moody's Latest Sermons.— Contents : "Excuse Giving"; 
The Work of the Shepherd ; The Centurion at Capernaum ; 
Our Victory Over the World ; Forgiveness and Obedience ; 
The Power of Faith ; The Inspiration of the Bible ; " God is 
Love " ; The Best Way to Study the Bible ; Walking With 
God ; What Shall the Harvest Be ? Paper cover, 25 cents ; 
cloth, 75 cents. 

Any of the above books will be sent by mail, postpaid, 
on receipt of price. Agents wanted to whom we offer 
liberal terms. Address all orders to 

J. S. OGILVIE PUBLISHING COMPANY, 

67 Bose Street, New York. 



DEC 3 1904 



PRICE, 30 CENTS. 



he Voice of Nature. 

THE SOUL OF THINGS. 



BY 



CHARLES WAGNER, 

author of "The Simple Life," "The Busy Life," Etc., Etc. 



ESIDENT ROOSEVELT says to the author of this book 

" I An PREACHING YOUR BOOKS 
TO ny COUNTRyiiEN." 



NEW YORK : 

J. S. OGILVIE PUBLISHING COMPANY, 
57 Rose Street. 



I -' 



RELIGIOUS BOOKS. 



We call your special attention to the following 
list of popular Religious and Temperance Books, / 
bound in paper cover, price 25 cents each. 

JOHN PLOUGHMAN'S TALKS AND PICTURES. Br 

Rev. C. H. Spurgeon. 

SPURGEON'S TWELVE BEST SERMONS. By Rev. 

C. H. Spurgeon. 

TEN NIGHTS IN A BAR ROOM. By T. S. Arthur. 

THE WEDDING RING. Sermons by Rev. T. De Witt 
Tannage. 

ROYAL GEMS. By Frances Ridley HavergaL 

IN HIS STEPS. By Rev. Chas. M. Sheldon. 

BLACK ROCK. By Ralph Connor. 

DANESBURY HOUSE— A $1,000 Prize Temperance 
Story. By Mrs. Henry Wood, author of ' ' Bast Lynne. " 

MOODY'S LATEST SERMONS. By Dwight L. Moody. 

BLACK BEAUTY— The Story of a Horse. By Anna 

Sewall. 

EARLY CONVERSION. By Rev. E. Payson Hammond. 

WHY I AM WHAT I AM. By Fourteen Clergymen. 

PRINCE OF THE HOUSE OF DAVID. By Rev. J. H. 
Ingraham. 

Any of the above books will be sent by mail, 
postpaid, to any address, for 25 cents each ; or any 
five books will be sent on receipt of $1.00. Address 
all orders to 

J. 3. 0GILVIE PUBLISHING COMPANY, 
P. 0. Box 767. 57 BOSS STREET, NEW Y0U- 

13 Mr '05 



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